


holding your stupid, half-gloved hands

by realfakedoors



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Boys Kissing, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Dorks in Love, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gay Keith (Voltron), Holidays, Humor, Lance (Voltron) is a Mess, M/M, Minor Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Protective Keith (Voltron), Romantic Fluff, Snow, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Train AU, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-17 15:26:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16977153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors
Summary: Keith and Lance share a commute. Lance is determined to ignore him, and Keith doesn't evenrememberthat they were rivals in high school. So how, you ask, do they end up pretending to be boyfriends at Adam's family Christmas Party? Well, it's a little complicated... but it's definitely at least 70% Lance's fault.A three-part Christmas fluff fic, with a pretend/fake relationship, lots of hand-holding, some goons on a train, poor detective skills, and plenty of jokes. Maybe a mistletoe kiss. T for gratuitous cursing.





	1. Allegheny Station (8:36 AM)

**Author's Note:**

> based on my [on-going tumblr holiday prompt ask](https://real-fakedoors.tumblr.com/post/180923207504/verobird-christmas-prompts-some-i-made-up-some)  
>  _1\. Mistletoe kiss & 2\. Pretend boyfriend/girlfriend for family Christmas party. Klance! _

**[KEITH]**

If there was anyone on this Earth who had the _genuine_ spirit within them to smile before nine in the morning, well, they could fuck right off in Keith’s opinion.

It was a thought that occurred to him every day, Monday through Friday, promptly at 8:35 AM. Because every day, at 8:36 AM, his train pulled into the station, and it was fucking _terrible._ Don’t let anyone try to romanticize the experience for you – riding a train is not fun. There wasn’t a fantastical backdrop like he was going to fucking Hogwarts; there wasn't any rolling hills or lit up city, no mysterious strangers who would strike up a conversation with him. More often than not, it smelled like cheap fabric cleaner and the general musk of sweat mixed with coffee, or, on the weekends, alcohol. It wasn’t even that _fast_ , but it was better than walking or biking in the bitter cold. The university paid for his transportation pass, too, so it was essentially free.

(And please, don’t start on about _nothing in life is free_ – it’s much too early for that.)

On this particular morning of the ever-burning hellfire nightmare that was being twenty years old, it was Tuesday, 8:32 AM. November came in with no holds barred, the end of autumn hitting the Northeast bitterly, and the cold sting in his cheeks was not unlike a wintery slap to his goddamn face. Everything was cold, all the time – his cheeks were always flushed, his breath puffed in little clouds, his hands were stiff and he wondered, vaguely, if this is what it felt like to enter into rigor mortis?

Cryptic? Maybe.

It was 8:33 AM, cut him some fucking slack.

Keith held a coffee in his half-gloved hands like a lifeline, his last ditch attempt to grapple with his sanity before his 9:15 _Dynamics of Particles and Waves_ lecture. Around him, people swarmed the station in droves. Some days he entertained the idea of them herding in like mindless sheep, other days it was schools of fish that swam right into the mouth of a beluga whale – all of them, lifeless, sucked into the black hole of their smartphones.

It was always so _crowded_. It wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t crowded. He supposed that was to be expected, a symptom of living in the city, but that didn’t mean he had to _like_ it.

Indeed, he did his very best to look unapproachable at all times, not that such an act was far from how he generally held himself. This was simply more intentional. He needed a constant _fuck-off_ zone of at least two feet on all sides.

No, that’s not _just_ him being an edgelord, _Shiro_. Allow him to explain before you jump to conclusions, alright? Ass.

(Dully, he thought – _wow, have I really been reduced to carrying out conversations with_ Shiro _in my fucking head? Please, someone kill me. No, not you, Shiro. Anyone else.)_

Anyway. About being touched. Hugs were okay, handshakes – no big deal. But being bumped, brushed up against, shoved, toes stepped on, jostled, those sorts of obnoxious, _I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-the-people-around-me_ touches? Those really tested his patience. And Keith? Not exactly known for his patience.

So when 8:36 AM rolled around, he wasted no time speaking to his internal-Shiro or trying to imagine sixteen different ways the ceiling might cave in. He booked it towards his preferred spot, a little wedge right near the front of the train car that probably wasn’t design for someone to really occupy, but it basically prevented anyone from getting near him and it was close to the doors so you bet your ass Keith squeezed into that space every single day, and that morning was no different.

Well, no different in _that_ respect.

Beside his sectioned off spot in the train, there was a plane of plexiglass with a handle that wrapped around it designed to aid those with disabilities. The transparent wall made for a nice, literal barrier from the sometimes-inane conversation that carried over the riders, though the train was usually just pressed uncomfortably by the predictable, stuffy silence.

Through the glass pane, Keith could see the rest of the train and its riders, though he usually tried to pointedly ignore them – today it was not as easy.

The doors began closing in time with the same grating, robotic voice he heard every day, punctually at 8:37 AM, reminding the commuters to “be safe and oh also don’t forget to like the public transport system’s Facebook page, share us on Twitter, swipe right for us on Tinder,” so-on-and-so-forth, when an absolute mess of limbs and disgruntled noises, quickly followed by a string of apologies, shattered the usual peace of the beginning of Keith’s commute. A body, which could only aptly be described as _flailing_ into the train, slammed into no fewer than three people and was furiously trying to make amends for its last-minute entrance.

 _Talk about a close fucking call_ , Keith thought wryly before turning away again. He still hadn’t replaced his broken headphones from their last and final time through the spin cycle, so he was without the respite of music to distract him and was resigned to studying his hands, the lid of his coffee cup, the curve of the metal.

It was, frankly, sort of boring. Boring was fine, though. Boring would help to psych himself for the oncoming lecture which was bound to be about six-thousand times worse, give or take.

His commute took about twenty minutes, maybe a little more, and on that particular day he made it about fifteen before his eyes began to wander. They drifted from benign face to benign face; to overly complicated satchels, a pair of horrendous salmon-colored shoes, and folded newspaper, tucked between the seats. It was all relatively normal, everyday things he’d spot on the train – that is, until his eyes fell upon someone, and with a start, he realized they were _looking back at him_.

It was the guy who had burst through the doors earlier, barely making the stop in time. It was Keith’s first time getting a proper look at him, and, well… thank god Keith could chalk his own flushed cheeks up to the cold.

The stranger’s complexion took on a warm shade of brown, even between the dull overhead lights, and the ends of his hair that stuck out beneath a gray beanie were just a few shades darker brown. He wore an army-green jacket with some gray and orange paneling, jeans, and fairly simple, if not well-cared for, gray sneakers. Over his shoulder, he wore a simple beige messenger bag that, judging by the sharp and uneven protrusions that poked into the fabric, seemed laden with books; a student, presumably. Brow furrowed, he seemed almost as surprised as Keith to be caught staring, and he promptly scrambled with the phone in his hands and stared bullets into the screen, fingers tapping away restlessly.

It didn’t take an astrophysics degree (like the one Keith was stubbornly trying to earn) to tell that the stranger was pretty. Annoyingly so, actually, because even as Keith looked away almost as quickly as the other boy, the bright blue of the stranger’s returning gaze had effectively burned itself into his retina, like the little spots that lingered in your vision after looking at the sun.

Yes. Annoying. That was a good word to describe the stranger, and with the thought of his pretty eyes effectively nipped in the bud, Keith went for a big swig of his coffee, and proceeded to make a horrible mistake.

He glanced sidelong through the plexiglass again, maybe/maybe-not in the direction of Annoying Stranger, only to find him looking back at him _again_.

The coffee he’d so-smartly decided to chug promptly began to choke him, and he coughed up scalding hot, bitter grounds, the grit of it scratching his throat. Keith made a quick mental note to buy a better coffee maker.

Christ, the headlines – he could see them already.

_Local Gay Chokes on Coffee Grounds, Authorities Rule a Suicide from Own Social Awkwardness._

_Can Eye-Contact Kill You? Awkward Twenty-Year Old Suffers Internal Burns, then Fucking Dies._

As if Keith didn’t hate mornings enough. This was just humiliating, because now, _everyone_ was looking at him. Fucking stupid stranger with his stupid fucking face.

The universe took pity on him then, because just as he cleared his throat for the last time and narrowly avoided the clutches of death, the announcing, computerized voice declared it was his stop and he shuffled from the corner to the door, glaring at anyone and anything that dared to look his way.

Except the stranger. Definitely not him.

 

* * *

 

**[LANCE]**

 

The train really wasn’t _that_ bad.

Veronica had been exaggerating, just like he thought. As McClains, they both were known to be _slightly_ dramatic at times, and his experience that day told him that this was just another such instance.

Yes, it _was_ cramped and there was always someone touching him as a result, but it didn’t really seem that _dangerous_. In fact, the whole experience was rather bland, but not unpleasant. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket occasionally, presumably his group text with Pidge and Hunk, but it was a little too early and his hands a little too frozen to bother responding right now. People watching was more his kind of thing, anyways, and what better place that this? There didn’t appear to be any knife-wielding muggers, ready to jump him at the drop of a hat, or white supremacists that would shake him down and demand he “go back to Mexico.” (As a Cuban who spent the past seven years entirely in upstate New York, that particular comment was both exceedingly common and incredibly annoying.)

Honestly, the majority of the people heading into the city seemed to be business people, about to start their day of work. There were a few others around his age, probably other students or just young professionals, and just a smattering of ancient travelers, grannies and curmudgeons so old they’ve probably been alive longer than the trains have been running. Lance held his breath every time the rails bumped or shook slightly, certain the next one was going to knock their pacemakers right out of rhythm.

After a particularly intense tunnel, and no responding deaths – _geez, these grannies really know how to hang on, don’t they?_ – Lance tried to relax a little, releasing a slow exhale through his nose and adjusting his shoulder strap, gaze wandering again and –

_Holy shit._

That – that right there, on the other end of the train car, was _definitely_ Keith Kogane; Lance may not be good with names, but he would recognize that mullet anywhere.

Said Mullet was currently glowering at his hands, a severe grimace dipping twisting his lips and brow, the overall expression not unlike he was trying to communicate with his travel mug telepathically. Lance almost laughed, a mixture of surprise and amusement at the outright _intensity_ of his face. What the hell could he be thinking about?

Also, and more importantly, who gave him the right to have such an _outstanding_ glow up? The guy who had once been the short and broody upper classman at his high school, the guy who always one-upped Lance in _everything_ , the guy who was the subject of endless fawning by the girls in his grade– had grown up into _that?_

Talk about injustice. Christ.

What Lance at least had at least beat in height were probably lost – they had to be the same height now, if not Keith gaining an inch or two. That _fucker_. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he went and filled out his smaller frame, while Lance had grown only _more_ gangly as the years went on – not that Lance was staring at him, because the way that leather jacket hugged his biceps was _definitely not_ drawing his eye like a shiny, sexy magnet.

Nope. Nope nope nope.

His hair was stupid. That was the same. Lance definitely had better hair, hah, take _that_ , _Keith_.

For all the good the internal victory had done for his ego, it was squashed humiliatingly when the dark-haired boy looked up from his corner of the train car and met his eye. Lance almost _yelped_. He didn’t, but it was a close call.

“Fuck,” he muttered instead, just loud enough to earn him a glare from one of the elderly – he was going to call this particular old woman Barbara in his head for the remainder of his ride, even if it was only thirty more minutes.

_Fuck you, Barbara._

Reflexively, his hands grasped for his phone, all earlier desire to people-watch forgotten.

He wasn’t even really sure what he was saying, just typing away frantic thoughts of ‘Keith Kogane’ and ‘mullet’ and ‘train’ with a few expletives peppered in there, just to cover his bases. Once enough time passed that he felt he could justifiably sneak another glance, Lance tried to be a little subtler this time, turning his phone slightly in Keith’s direction and peeking up.

Again, with his _scowl-so-intense-it-could-kill-lesser-men_ on, Keith was once again glaring holes into his coffee mug. There’s no way he didn’t notice Lance, right? Should Lance say something? Just an innocent ‘hi’ wouldn’t be a big deal, right?

Then again, they _were_ practically rivals in high school, so he shouldn’t be surprised that Keith wouldn’t send him a friendly wave or say hello – he was probably more pissed to see him than anything. Lance was likely ruining his perfectly nice commute just by dredging up old memories, but, he couldn’t stop the burning questions that sizzled in the back of his throat. Predictably, Keith was just the right amount of ‘ _I don’t give a fuck’_ that Lance had never seen him on any form of social media… not that he ever really looked or anything… but most people from high school had popped up in his Twitter feed or Facebook suggestions at some time or another. It would come as a shock to absolutely no one if Keith didn’t even have a Facebook; in fact, Lance would bet money that he _didn’t_.

Did Keith live here? Why did he move from New York? Where was he going, right now?

Just when the teeny-tiny bit of courage he had in him began to swell, determined to at least go say hi to the guy instead of mentally interrogate him – because that was a crazy person thing to do and Lance was _not_ crazy, no sir – Keith took a big drink from his thermos and began to fucking _hack._

When Lance had expected someone on the train to die, he had figured it would be one of these fossils-of-human-beings that were withering away to dust before his eyes, maybe Barbara, if he were to be so lucky – not his old rival from high school. Whatever Keith had been drinking clearly didn’t go down well, and he was soon red-faced and coughing so hard it looked like his lungs were about to come right out with it.

Bemused, Lance smiled at the sight, just a little. So much for the cool-loner-guy in the corner vibe when you’re wheezing on coffee or tea or whatever he was drinking.

It wasn’t until he’d fully gotten through his fit of coughs that Lance made a pointed effort to catch his eye this time, really trying to lean _just-so_ into Keith’s periphery so he could maybe wave, give him a nice bro-nod, and be done with it.

Except Keith didn’t see him, didn’t even _glance_ at him again. Didn’t notice Lance’s deflated expression when he bolted off the train, the slight pout taking over his expression when the boy dashed off into the crisp winter air.

The closing door, and Keith’s cold shoulder, left Lance with a bit of a chill.

So he was going to be that sort of asshole about it, huh? Well, fine then. Lance would ignore him, too, if that’s how he was going to be.

With only a mild amount of bitterness, Lance glanced at his watch. He still had another twenty minutes, and tried not to sigh; after some unfortunate subletting and leasing that had been awesomely fumbled by all parties involved, he ended up on the other side of the city, and now his commute was twice as long, and, if today was any indicator, had exactly 100% more mullet than it did before.

With all the admiratio – _observation_ he’d been doing, Lance had failed to realize that a lot of people had actually gotten off at Keith’s stop, and his eyes scanned the confusing map on the opposite wall in an attempt to understand why… Ah, yes. It was the stop for the best school in the state, conveniently Ivy League. Of course Keith would be a student there, probably studying some absurdly difficult thing just to show everyone how much better he was than them.

And Lance? Well, thank god for scholarships, as he managed to get accepted to a decent private school just outside of the metropolitan area, a _no-one’s-heard-of_ liberal arts college. Naturally.

Some things changed from high school, like Lance’s ever-growing list of failed dates and his performance in math. Some things, like Keith’s mullet, and Lance’s tendency to be underwhelming, didn’t.

Only a few minutes left of his commute, Lance remembered, oh, duh, he has _headphones_ – why is he standing here drowning in his own incompetence when he could be listening to one of the fucking weird ass playlists Pidge made for him? They’ve got like 400 songs each, with _The Avalanches,_ Ariana Grande and fucking _K-Pop_ , Gorillaz, classic Pete Seeger for god knows what reason, and he was almost _certain_ there was at least two Italian operas on there, somewhere. It was sort of a mess, but that’s also why he loved it.

…

So, about Lance’s plan – ignoring Keith?  

Yeah, that went about as well as the _Rosanne_ reboot. That is to say, it was fucked from the get-go and no one was really surprised when it failed.

See, the show’s cancellation wasn’t because of Rosanne Barr’s _fantastic_ performance as an actress, it had more to do with – wait, wait, nevermind.

The point is, yes, Lance _planned_ to ignore Keith, and it lasted an embarrassingly short amount of time he’s almost ashamed to admit it in the first place.

After having so nearly missed his train the previous day, Lance successfully pulled the opposite stunt the next morning – he was up _before_ his alarm, ready and out the door to head make it to the Allegheny station at 8:00 AM on the dot. Of course, it was even fucking colder today, and now he had thirty minutes to kill with absolutely nothing to do but freeze to death.

Unintentionally, his eyes slipped closed. Maybe it was from the lingering sting of lost sleep, pricking at his bleary vision, or maybe it was just the general aridity of winter – whatever the cause, he breathed steadily and tried not to focus on the shitty weather or how nice Varadero must be this time of year. It’d been almost a decade since they moved to the States, and he still couldn’t help but think of their tiny island as home sometimes, especially in the colder months.

Man, the Northeast _sucked_.

Gloves had long since been a lost cause for him – he would wear a pair once and would end up losing them in class, at a café, in the bathroom – so he stopped wasting his money and just resorted to his pockets. Today, he buried his tingling fingers deep into the lining of his coat to chase his own body heat, grimacing at the threadbare texture. Lance really loved this jacket, but the fabric’s lifespan was clearly coming to its end. Maybe he could ask for a new one for Christmas. Sure, it might only be the first week of November, but it was never too early to start daydreaming about hot cocoa and warm blankets, right?

The platform grew increasingly loud as the crowds began to gather for the 8:35 boarding time, evidently a popular choice for commuters, and Lance subconsciously tightened his hold on his shoulder bag. This city was much safer than New York, but it was still a city, and he continued to ruminate on Veronica’s wary mention when he shared that he’d need to start commuting with the city trains – her cryptic warning about muggers and harassers still rang in the back of his head like church bells, or death knells. Really, it was the same sound, the meaning was a simple variant of context.

His lids fluttered open again at the thought, turned tense, and Lance willed himself into thinking about something that wouldn’t end with his anxiety through the metaphorical roof, and a bright scarf worn by the woman standing on the opposite side of the platform managed to do the trick. It was the color that caught his attention, a rich crimson color, and it lulled him back to his earlier comforting thoughts of the holidays: decorating the tree with his nieces and nephews; laughing over the _really_ terrible Christmas movies that Pidge and Matt both loved; going over to the Garrett’s to bake cookies; helping his Mamá cook breakfasts or fix dinners, enough for a neighborhood rather than a family but that was just how the McClains did holidays and birthdays. Always big and loud and full of love.

With a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Lance floated aboard his train with the crowds, and he managed to fold himself into a seat before he really thought to look around for –.

There he was, same place as yesterday, the same frustrated, unhappy look on his face, avoiding eye contact with everyone like the plague. Lance had been prepared for that, no sweat. He could ignore that annoying face all day if he had to, dark eyes and pink lips be damned.

What Lance was _not_ prepared for, however, was for his mullet to be conspicuously absent, instead tied up into a – a ponytail?!

_Oh, come on. Give me a fucking break!_

Sincerely, his frail, bisexual heart couldn’t take such abuse this early, especially not when he was this cold. It was only _Wednesday_. He wanted to groan and sink into a puddle, but seeing as he had no immediate control over the liquescence of his skin and bones, Lance settled on looking out the window, studying the passing landscape in the weak morning light and punching down his every desire to look over, to see if Keith was maybe looking his way, if the weight of eyes on him was as real as it felt.

Lance was nothing if not stubborn, though, and managed to will away his urges. Keith had been the one to ignore him first, so really, all Lance was doing was honoring his desire to be the same loner he had been in high school.

Whatever. He could really use this added travel time to study, so he did just that, diving into his bag and fishing out his Organic Chemistry textbook.

Lance’s GPA: 1. Keith: 0.

 

* * *

 

And so, at least for a little while, that’s how things went.

Lance stopped noticing Keith as much. He wasn’t _as_ hyperaware of the flash of leather in the corner of his eye every time they came to his Ivy-League-Golden-Boy stop, didn’t let his eyes linger for too long on the receding head of black hair whether it be up in a ponytail or down, blowing in the wintery winds. It was impossible not to glance his way each day when they first boarded, and for some silly reason every morning Lance would hopefully wait for the delayed recognition – that maybe Keith was really _that_ fascinated with the lid of his travel cup, so much so that he had failed to notice Lance riding ten meters away from him for ten whole train rides.

Keith never looked at him, and once the doors closed, Lance would turn his music on and pull out the books or articles for whatever fresh hell his professors had prepared for him for the coming week.

It wasn’t lonely.

During the days, Lance was quite literally crowded by people. Winter was in full-swing, Thanksgiving now a week and a half away, holiday shopping and decorating and talks of travel plans flitted by him on campus, at the station, at the small grocer two blocks away from his newish studio apartment.

Hunk, Shay, Pidge, Matt and Allura were planning their usual Secret Santa for after the holidays, when they’d all come back to town with their families. It was getting harder to find time for them all to get together, so sometimes the gift exchange had to be delayed and some gifts even mailed while the absent member FaceTime’d in, but they tried to make it work and that was what mattered.

Life was – it was fine. Good, even. He and Hunk Facetimed almost daily, that girl in his differential equations class might actually be responding to his flirting, and his Mamá called him and texted him and asked about his travel and holiday plans frequently. Lance kept telling her he didn’t know about when he would come home just yet, and unfortunately, it was true. A train ticket to New York was only in the neighborhood of $60, but he needed to budget the time he spent out-of-town carefully, so he could maximize his time as a research assistant – a _paid_ position that _also_ looked good on a CV, thank you very much.

Keith was there, everyday. Tuesday through Friday. (Well, he might be there on Monday’s, too, but Lance’s only class of the day was much later so he didn’t board their 8:35 AM train.) His habits were as predictable as the train schedule itself – always occupied the same little cubby, never looked at anyone, never talked to anyone.

This was his new normal, and honestly, it could be a lot worse.

And yet, every morning in the two minutes between 8:35 and 8:37, he couldn’t help but think – _it could be a lot better, too_.

 

* * *

 

**[KEITH]**

The train still sucked.

Keith’s whole week usually sucked, actually – it was growing colder by the day, and there was snow set to hit sometime that weekend. There weren’t enough hours in the day to do his homework, try to maintain some sort of regular work-out routine, stay in touch with Shiro and Adam, and phone-in some kind of social life.

It sucked on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, and on Thursday, and you best believe it sucked on Friday, too.

But it never sucked so much as it did on Mondays.

Rewind to that first Tuesday, and the stranger was back the next morning, though he took a window seat across the aisle from where Keith stood consistently thereafter. Incidentally, such a spot provided Keith a much easier vantage point to sneak looks at his profile as he stared out the window or kept his nose in a textbook. Definitely a student.

Sometimes, the stranger took out his cell phone, but not often. He usually had headphones in and that was that. He never stopped to change the song or text or browse like everyone else.

…And, no, Keith was _not_ being creepy about this. It was just ‘people-watching’ – that’s something that normal, sociable people do, right? He would _swear_ he heard Shiro say something about it once, and everyone fucking _loves_ Shiro, so Keith knew it couldn’t be that weird. (At least, that’s what he told himself.) It’s not like there was some law against looking at other people around you, and as far as he could tell, except for the very first time they met eyes, Keith wasn’t even sure if the guy even really noticed him on the train.

That wasn’t really a problem. Keith didn’t mind not being noticed, he was content to just stand to the side watching. (Again, _not in a creepy way._ He really can’t stress than enough.) It was just, simpler this way. Something to do, like watching the news in the morning, or listening to traffic updates on the radio; the stranger was interesting and it helped his ride in in the mornings pass by.

Keith had no issue with the Annoying Stranger, apparently, forgetting he existed. Indeed, it was practically part of his creed to _be_ forgettable, to go unnoticed whenever possible.

Keith _did_ have an issue, however, in how many other people seemed to notice _his_ stranger on the train.

Every day, it got worse. There were girls that would point at him from across the aisle, giggling and trying to catch his eye, but, nope. He was always reading, or looking out the window, almost obstinately not paying the people around him any mind.

A significantly older man, at least Professor Smythe’s age, if not older, had gotten a bit handsy one day when he made a show of struggling to get up. Keith saw this particular man on the train at least twice a week, and the old, creepy fuck was _definitely_ capable of getting up on his own, but it’s not like the stranger knew that. He was just trying to be nice when the guy asked for his help, which made the whole thing even harder to watch – a bony pair of hands lingering over the stranger’s arms and wrist, even brushing up against his thigh when he nearly ‘fell’ getting out of the aisle – it was more than enough to make Keith uncomfortable.

Early outside the station, on the second Tuesday, Keith had nearly broken his strict _no-talking_ policy for two reasons.

One, who did the stranger think he was, just _not_ showing up to their train the day before? After the weekend, and not seeing the stranger on Monday, either, Keith had actually started to _worry._ The guy just… just… he looked vulnerable, okay!? Students are easy targets in general for theft, or worse, and his stranger’s general breeziness didn’t do him any favors in terms of warding people off, not like Keith’s own outward hostility.

Two, and on a very related note, was the presence of some riders he’d seen for the first time the Monday of his stranger’s absence. They were two literal _goons_ , because Keith had no better words to describe the men, mid- upper-twenties, wearing sweatshirts and low-riding pants, looking like they haven’t brushed their teeth or showered in the past month, and they were the ones who actually made him start to worry.

They stayed on the train longer than Keith the first day, and where they’d been generally quiet aside from an occasion comment on Monday, Tuesday was a whole different ball game. They continued to nod in his stranger’s direction, whispering back and forth between each other, basically _staring_ at him from a few seats back. Keith did not like that, not at all, and he even considered staying on the train and missing his morning lecture, just to make _sure_ nothing happened. Ugh, but that felt… invasive? Stalker-ish, and Keith wasn’t a creep or a stalker. And why did he care so much? The stranger seemed just as aloof to Keith’s presence as he did to everyone else.

So, no. That was weird and crossed too many lines.

Instead, as always, Keith kept his head low and focused on the warmth of his coffee in his hands, shuffling out the door and pushing the nagging into the back of his mind. It wasn’t easy, and more than once throughout the day, Keith found himself thinking about those tired, yet somehow sharp, blue eyes as they scanned the pages of a book, or the end of a pen stuck between white teeth, or, inevitably, the people who constantly _leered_ at his stranger _._

(Yes, it did occur to Keith that he was guilty of it too. At least he was… maybe subtle about it? He didn’t go up and actually touch the guy or anything like the old man, or point or clearly trying to grapple for his attention.)

To say he was relieved on the second Wednesday to see him on the train again, same time, same seat, _unharmed_ , would be putting it mildly. It wasn’t all good news, as Fuck Boy One and Two were also back, but his stranger didn’t appear shaken or hurt so nothing must have happened.

Now, it was the third Wednesday, and Keith still hated mornings, and he definitely still hated the train, and he hated the upcoming holidays, too. Because, fuck no, he was _not_ about to even _wonder_ how the boy might be spending his holidays. Was he local? Did he travel? He would probably stop riding the train whenever his classes went on break. Would he start up again after? Did Keith want him to?

Shit, he was doing exactly what he set out _not to do_. Keith sighed and tried to pay attention to the class material, with some amount of success – there were midterms before the short break they were allowed for Thanksgiving, and he was not in the mood to get his ass kicked by Electricity & Magnetism right before a break.

 

* * *

 

Keith left the campus that day a little later than usual, six, rather than five, as he stayed in the library for an hour or so to study before his work-out. After a warm shower to help brace him for another frosty evening, Keith trudged his way to 30th Street and let out a few purposeful exhales, watching his breath play on the wind, the sidewalk backlit by the orange glow of streetlamps. It was pretty, and a few flakes of snow had begun to fall – nothing substantial, and it certainly wouldn’t stick, but it amounted for a pretty scene and he thought wistfully, distantly, about the dry heat of the Southwest, lacking in all of the North’s humidity and restless seasons, about his Dad, about the uncanny way ash fell from the sky much like snow on the evening he died.

His wandering thoughts carried him to the station without issue, keeping his hands buried in his pockets except to get out his transit pass at the station. Once there, on the platform, he rubbed at the scratching sleepiness of his eyes and looked around at the other post-rush hour commuters.

_Holy fucking shit._

His stranger was standing less than two feet away, not having noticed him _at all_ by the looks of it. Instead, he was intently reading something in the screen of his smartphone, brow furrowed and lips turned down.

This – this was Keith’s chance to say something. To potentially make every Tuesday through Friday unbearably awkward if he said the wrong thing, true, but he could finally at least put a _name_ to that fucking face.

But how? There was the obvious option – Keith could just, you know… introduce himself and try to have a conversation like a normal person?

_Haha. Good one._

The seconds drew to minutes, and never did the guy look up from his phone, like to even blink would be heretical.

Now, he was suddenly incredibly conscious of everything having to do with himself. God, it’s like his first date all over again, a flurry of inane questions popping into his head.

( _My hairs up, is that bad? Or good? I remembered to put on deodorant, right? Is he busy, should I maybe not bother him? He’s not studying for once… but he looks kind of mad? Does he usually ride home this late? Why is he at my station, anyways? Also, what is it about those fucking eyes? They’re not just – not just_ pretty _, but almost familiar?)_

Not that Keith was one to ever think things through. Those were all well and good thoughts, but he was nothing if not abrupt and awkward, so of course their conversation would be just the same.

“You ride the 8:36 train. I know you.”

_Real smooth, Kogane._

The boy flinched so suddenly he nearly dropped his phone, tossing it between his hands like it’d been coated in grease before managing to secure it with a loud snap. His eyes were wide, looking at Keith for what felt like the first time all over again, the blues depths vivid, catching the reflection beneath the station lights.

_Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush._

Keith blushed.

_Stupid pale skin why now the fucking betrayal son of a –_

“I… yeah. Me t-too.” The boy paused and cleared his throat, quickly tucking his phone into his jacket pocket. “I mean, I do – know you, that is. Of course I do! I was wondering if you had noticed it was me on the train. How, er, how have you been, man?”

Now it was Keith’s turn to go wide-eyed, almost wincing when the stranger sent him a disarming, nostalgic sort of smile.

Keith, ever the rhetorician, replied, “Wait, what? We know each other?”

The other boy rolled his eyes and smirked. “Uh, high school, of course! Lance and Keith, neck and neck! You have to… you _have_ to remember.”

Pursing his lips, Keith wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to process this information. His brain was sort of preoccupied with the amused lilt to his tone when the stranger – when _Lance_ – had said his name.

Lance looked positively stricken, and he laughed in a way that Keith perceived to be… bitter. “Oh my god. You don’t remember at all, do you? Of course not.”

“I… no…? I’m sorry,” Keith said sincerely, both of them boarding the train and gravitating towards where Lance typically sat, the evening making the train car much less crowded. Lance sat at his seat at the window, and instead of occupying the seat next to him – Keith preferred the idea of being able to make a quick escape, and sitting felt like some sort of social bonding thing that he couldn’t back out of. Standing meant an easy escape, so Keith grabbed one of the metal support bars and leaned against it.

To be quite honest, Keith was unsure of how to even hold this conversation now that it had started. It was basically already a fucking disaster, so he might as well just keep on going.

“I didn’t – I moved around a lot when I was younger, so I had a difficult time placing the names and faces from my different schools… Sorry.”

Lance, who had worn a tight smile up until the end, held Keith’s gaze for a long, posturing moment and sighed, the hardness of his expression softening slightly.

“No, it’s fine, I don’t really have a great memory either – can’t really fault you there. So, I’m Lance, I go to school at Vaherford outside the city. From New York – well, no, Cuba originally, but it’s been New York for a while.”

Keith picked at his gloves for something to do, to keep his eyes and hands busy. “So you went to… Garrison High, then?”

“Yup.” Lance popped the ‘p’ sound, sending a sideways glance to Keith that he just barely caught. “You were a grade ahead of me, but we shared a few classes and… yeah.”

Lance briefly pulled out his phone, frowning at the screen before locking it again. When his gaze returned Keith, he almost laughed – the guy’s expression was also just so bright and absurdly _open_. Who just goes around smiling at everyone like that? Wouldn’t his cheeks get tired? Just thinking about it made _Keith_ tired.

“I guess I know you, so you can skip the introduction,” Lance stretched his arms out, patting the seat next to him. “Wanna sit? We’ve got, like, twenty minutes.”

Well, now that Lance had _offered_ , it would be impolite not to accept, right?

So he awkwardly shuffled his bag into his lap and sat down, his whole right side _buzzing_ with the not-touching-but-almost-touching space between them. Keith did not like people in his personal space, most of the time, but it didn’t usually make him feel like _this_.

After a few moments, Lance coughed. “Sooo… what are you studying?”

Much to Keith’s surprise, and subsequent relief, the conversation wasn’t all that awkward – at least, no more awkward than he was talking to just about anybody, to which the credit should entirely go to Lance and his ability to talk, and talk, and talk. In fact, it was often more of a monologue than a dialogue, but Keith didn’t mind. They went through the regular subjects – schools, studying, friends they stay in touch with – but it took exactly all of five minutes for Lance to begin recanting some of their… apparent… antics in high school, of which Keith had only the vaguest memories.

Each time Lance recounted something, like racing each other to school to get the perfect parking spot beneath the massive tree at the left-hand corner of the parking lot, or Lance setting track and field records only for Keith to subsequently destroy them, a little bit more started to come back to him.

(For the record, there was no race. Keith got to school exactly at 7:15 AM. If his preferred spot in the back left-corner was taken, he just parked somewhere else. He didn’t even know he set any records for the track & field team, let alone broke Lance’s records specifically. That particular activity was literally something he did because Shiro told him he should try to focus on working with a _team._ In retrospect, it was fair to say that definitely didn’t work out.)

For the life of him, he didn’t remember Lance as featuring in any of the memories, but he remembered there just being people, and in Keith’s mind, Lance had just been “people.”

Their stop – which was weird to say, because in the mornings, they always got off at different times – but _their_ stop came in the middle of once of Lance’s stories. There was no way twenty minutes had passed, but, when the predictable mechanized voice notified him that they’d reached the Alleghany Station, encouraging him to start tagging his social media with #PAMTransitStories, he promptly fucked right off the train without skipping a beat.

Lance followed out after him, gesturing with his hands and laughing. “Wait, so you only went to graduation because Shiro _bribed_ you?”

Shrugging, Keith began to walk towards the exit, but leaned against the wall to give Lance the chance to finish. “I really wanted that part for my bike. Shiro really wanted me to walk for the stupid diploma. It was a win-win, really.”

The tan-skinned boy laughed, some of his breath misting in the air, and Keith vaguely wanted to throw himself back on the tracks when he realized the action had completely drawn him to look at Lance’s lips.

Lips that were currently curved up, a lopsided smile fixed to his features.

Keith bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to pay attention. The other boy had stopped and let out a satisfied-sounding sigh, like he’d just walked out of a sauna instead of into the bitter night air.

At the bottom steps of the station, Keith began to naturally gravitate towards the route he would usually take to his apartment, unconsciously sticking around to see which way Lance might walk. Lance seemed to have the same sort of idea, but his feet drifted in the other direction.

“I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, I guess?” Lance chuckled, scratching the back of his neck as he awkwardly turned away, looking out the street lamps and the light layer of snow that began to dust the top of cars and lamp posts and the mailbox at the end of the block. The city was never really dark, but this lighting was definitely not one Keith was used to seeing him in – they were both typically stuck beneath white-washed fluorescents that fizzled and popped occasionally.

Never like this, the chill bringing color to his, to _Lance’s_ cheeks, the orange-tone of the lights making his skin almost glow against the bright flakes of snow that fell around them.

If Keith didn’t know better (which, he really, _really_ didn’t; Keith was absolute _shit_ at reading people,) but if he didn’t know better, he swore Lance sounded almost… excited? Maybe even hopeful?

“Yeah,” Keith answered automatically, managing not to cringe at how excited _he_ sounded by the idea. “Same time as always.”

“Same time as always,” Lance repeated, grin widening before he spun away, marching off in the other direction.


	2. "idk man, that's pretty gay."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, Keith takes Lance's hand, and later, Lance returns the favor. Sorta.

**[LANCE]**

 

As foretold by the ancient runes of the public transit system, in rolled their train to a whining stop over the tracks at 8:36 AM, every day.

But every day was different for them now.

Every day, Lance ended up meeting Keith on the platform before it was time to board, and they wound up talking – a lot. More often than not, it began with a joke at Keith’s expense, usually something positively _sunny_ attitude first thing in the morning, but the teasing was always light and the other boy didn’t seem to mind. A few times, even, Lance caught him smiling, so it was definitely worth testing the waters.

Depending on how early they both got there – and, call Lance crazy, but did they both always used to get there at 8:00 AM? Or sometimes even 7:45? He swore there was a day he was even walking up the steps at the same time as Keith and it wasn’t even 7:30 AM, but Lance was mostly convinced that he dreamt that.

(The longer he thought on it, no, it _definitely_ had to be a dream, he decided. It would be make all of zero sense for both of them to show up over an _hour_ early for their train in the bitter cold of winter mornings – hell, Lance could almost walk to campus in that amount of time. No way. Definitely didn't happen, because they never stood there long enough for his fingers to grow numb from the cold or for his teeth to chatter.)

Anyways, if they had longer than ten minutes (they always seemed to have longer than ten minutes), their conversations would expand beyond the obligatory _how are you, how did your exam go,_ et cetera. Lance would rattle on about his siblings, or about his friends back in New York, or about Cuba.

Sometimes, Keith would share something about himself, usually small things, but they reminded Lance of the little flowers that would nettle their way in between the cracks in the city sidewalks during the warmer months, happy little accidents that blossomed stubbornly through the splintered, cold cement.

That was how Lance learned more about Shiro, a name he’d known heard through Matt Holt at one point or another, the image of him in Lance’s mind really more a myth or a legend than a man. So it only further served to surprise him when Keith off-handedly revealed that Shiro was, in fact, gay, and married to a man named Adam, and that they were essentially Keith’s family. Keith didn’t talk about his Mom or Dad, and Lance didn’t ask. That was way too heavy for 8:30 in the morning, and it really was Keith’s business to share anyways.

As for Lance’s favorite part of their mornings together – well, let him preface that by saying he _really_ hadn’t meant for their mornings to turn into this, sincerely, even if it seemed like something he might do intentionally – but they would get into these stupid little… what, bets? Competitions? They were dumb, trivial things – Keith mentioned swimming at his university’s pool, and that turned into, _hey_ , _I bet I can hold my breath longer than you_ ; a windy day had them ripping out papers from Lance’s bag and making paper airplanes, trying to outfly the others, often to the chagrin of the people around them.

Their conversations or their random dares would come to their eventual end at the same time, and they would board the train. Lance would take to his window seat per usual, and some days, Keith would even emerge from his emo-corner and stand amongst actual human beings for the length of his ride, near enough that Lance could talk to him if he wanted to. (Lance wasn’t really sure _why_ he came out somedays and others he didn’t, maybe it had to do with how crowded the train cars were?) But, even on those days, they didn’t really speak much besides a stray comment or two, and, honestly? The whole arrangement ended up working to Lance’s benefit. He had two exams before the brief Thanksgiving break and the extra study time was quite necessary.

No distractions, at least until it was time for Keith’s stop. Lance would look up, always sending him at least a quick grin, or, on a particularly good day, maybe even some finger guns. Keith would return the smile with a small one of his own – as for the finger guns, well, Lance was lucky for an eye roll.

…And, no, that fluttering you were hearing was _not_ Lance’s hummingbird-heart, thrumming in the cage of his ribs every time Keith got off the train. Shut up.

The last time they saw each other before the seven-day holiday jump was two days before Thanksgiving, a Tuesday. Keith was going to Shiro and Adam’s for his school’s break, and he was leaving that evening. Lance, on the other hand, had to work Wednesday afternoon and the next soonest train he could catch back to New York wasn’t until 7:50 in the evening, much to Lance’s annoyance.

So much so, in fact, it was the very subject of Lance’s laments that morning before the train pulled in.

“I _hate_ the night trains; I get so sleepy. Pidge made me a playlist that’s 90% death metal and 5% samples of Scandinavian yodeling, all spliced together.”

Keith snorted into his coffee. “What about the other 5%?”

“I think it’s literally a whole album re-recording of her brother doing _Phantom of the Opera_. Seeing as it’s designed to keep me awake…”

Lance shuddered. Matt could _not_ hit those falsettos.

“Sounds effective,” Keith hummed, tapping his foot. His next words came out oddly… tight? Actually, come to think of it – he’d been acting sort of strange all morning, and now that Lance gave him a proper once over (and maybe once more, just for good measure), he looked a little feverish. Maybe he was coming down with something? “You really shouldn’t sleep on the trains, ever.”

“Thanks, I’ll be sure to write that down,” he snarked back, and Keith narrowed his eyes in response.

It wasn’t another minute before the train began to pull in, and Lance sighed as he adjusted his shoulder strap. Today was his big fucking Differential Equations exam, and he was about as ready as he’d ever –

“Um, Lance?”

He blinked, surprised to find Keith’s usual scowl at its absolute most extreme severity. Needless to say, he was even _more_ surprised when a cell phone was being shoved into his hands.

“You should text me when you’re riding back to New York. Just – you know, in case you start to fall asleep. Or something.”

“Oh. Right. Sure.” His autopilot fingers managed to complete the task while his brain effectively shut down for several seconds, only coming back to full awareness when the whipping wind of train coming to a stop around the frigid platform causing his head to rattle around a little. “Sounds good. I guess, uh, text me if you want, so I’ll have your number too?”

Small mercy that the train carts opened right then, so they both returned to their habitual spots because Lance was pretty sure if he tried to speak his heart would fall out of his mouth, and _no one_ needed to bear witness to that.

 

* * *

 

**[KEITH]**

 

Ah, Thanksgiving. The time of year to celebrate things you cherish, like cranberry sauce, or something. If you’re like Adam’s sister, you show your gratitude by going to the store at 8 PM and buying the biggest fucking TV you can find without getting trampled.

Truly, an iconic American holiday.

You know what Keith was thankful for this year?

_Cell phones._

Keith had never been one to text very often, and having Lance’s number was not particularly an exception to this rule. As advised, Lance texted Keith regular updates on his way home and when he arrived safely. They texted maybe twice the remainder of the break, just quick little checks of how the other was doing.

Having Lance’s number was more… well, not _tangible_ , there was no real weight that came with having each other’s phone numbers, but Keith found a greater sense of comfort in being _able_ to contact him. That was nice. No more of the tiny, shameful little worries that wiggled their way in each Friday that, come Tuesday, he might never see Lance again.

The contact in his phone made things a little more _real_ than just Tuesday-Friday acquaintances, a chance encounter on the train that would be forgotten once the semester was over. It felt like friendship.

But Keith would be lying to you, himself, and everyone else, if he were to admit that _friendship_ was going to be enough for him.

The best estimate he could give was that it happened in the morning – whether that was every morning, or laterally across all of them, Keith wasn’t sure. All he knew was, at some point, his motivation to learn more about Lance, to spend as much time with Lance as possible, had shifted from one of mild infatuation and interest as a stranger on the train, to what was now annoyingly present admiration and stupid, sincere _affection_.

Without a good frame of reference, the best way Keith could really describe whatever this new _thing_ was, was through actions – well, _impulses_ , things he _would_ act upon if there weren’t any consequences.

It was the feeling of annoyance when he noticed Lance never wore gloves – Keith stupidly wanted to peel his own off his hands just to give them to him. Seriously, Lance was going to get frostbite; he was already really thin. If that wasn’t enough, there was the constant, unconscious inching closer whenever they were on the platform, having to battle with his own two feet every day. It was always that they were too-far apart to be standing in the frigid morning, fresh snow fallen over the Allegheny station _._ They would be warmer if they were closer – something like that just seemed to so _obvious._

The problem was, he had _no freaking clue_ how Lance felt about any of this. He didn't even know if he had any interest in men, let alone Keith in particular, but fuck if Keith wasn’t going to at least try to find out.

The final few weeks of the semester would be over in no time at all, and the very real possibility that their respective class schedules wouldn’t align so clandestinely next time was a constant prick at the back of his mind whenever he thought of that dumb, soft smile, or the contrast of dark skin under hazy gray morning light, the overcast somehow making him look even better. How does that even _work_? Weren’t clouds and monotony supposed to make everything dull and dreary? Not Lance, apparently. He just stood out even more than usual, a constant slip of a laughter or bouncy energy in the foreground rather than blended with the metropolitan scenery.

He wrestled with the decision privately the entire time he was with Shiro and Adam, agitated to the point where he almost just outright explained the whole thing to the both of them in search of advice. Ultimately, Keith decided he wouldn’t act on anything just yet, not until he at least had a better sense of… Lance’s interests, at minimum.

And, oh, how fate had a funny way with these things.

December brought with it the full force of the holidays, and, consequently, Winter proper. While there were some who waited until Thanksgiving had passed to truly get into the ‘Christmas spirit’, by the time his classes resumed, the city had been transformed. Every corner, every building, every barren tree, everywhere Keith looked, the city twinkled faintly beneath soft strung-up lights. The shoveled sidewalks, glacial winds, frosted windows of the shops outside – it made things seem muted, quieter than he remembered just from the previous week. Maybe that was part of why he was so relaxed, remarkably so, to be returning to his classes, to the city. There was comfort in the routine, the familiarity of his apartment, the walk to the station.

Lance was already there when Keith walked up the steps, though you wouldn't have known it from the way Keith had to scan the crowds to find him – Lance was on the taller side, and he usually wore the same slouchy gray beanie, so Keith never had much trouble picking him out of a crowd – but this morning, Keith didn’t spot him in any of the usual places they would stand.

It was still pretty early, not even quite 8:00 AM yet, and they didn’t really have a designated time that they would meet in the mornings – one of them would show up, the other would wait – a simple, reliable pattern. Keith allow his still sleepy-fogged thoughts to wander, yawning and rubbing at the dryness of his eyes.

In addition to seeking out Lance on the platform every morning, Keith now kept his attention steely whenever they boarded, scanning the train car for the prodigal _goons_ , the two fucks who always seemed to have Lance in their sights, and Keith would pick his place to stand accordingly. The first time he had moved from his corner to stand beside Lance (well, technically, it was a young woman on her phone who took the aisle seat, and Lance was nested beside the window) had, not at all coincidentally, been the first day either of the two trashbag-excuses-of-human-beings seemed like they were trying to make some sort of move, not occupying in their typical cluster of seats in the middle-back half of the cart and instead sitting directly across the aisle from Lance’s usual seat.

He stopped to sip his coffee in a vain attempt to warm himself, frowning. Keith had always been a little protective. He recognized that about himself, character flaw or otherwise. Shiro attributed it to when he was in the foster system, citing a secondary set of learned-instincts to look out for his younger foster siblings who would be targeted at school or, on one or two occasions, their foster parents. (Shiro was probably right, as he had a tendency to be.) Maybe he was being paranoid as a result, but the guys on the train had given him a bad feeling since the first time Keith noticed them watching Lance, and it didn’t help that they really never stopped thereafter, except on Mondays, when, of course, they acted completely normal. Somedays, they were more intense than others, and the two would actually physically move when Keith and Lance boarded, usually sitting back down somewhere near enough to Lance to make Keith’s shoulders tense. Those were the days he opted to stand near Lance instead of his usual corner across the aisle, even if he had to give up basically a perfect view of Lance’s profile to do so.

Those days also happened to be riddled with anxiety the moment he stepped off the train, wondering about what might happen when he wasn’t around. It wasn’t that Keith was necessarily worried that Lance couldn’t take care of himself, but it was the other boy’s blameless, unique brand of optimism, his unguarded openness and laughter and smiles – those things which had so effortlessly become as essential to Keith’s mornings as his daily dose of coffee – it was those things that made Keith wary. He didn’t want someone to hurt that part of Lance, to give him an excuse to become jaded or cynical, to become untrusting and reticent (even if it _was_ somewhat naïve to try to walk around with so much vulnerable expectancy).

Lance wasn’t completely aloof to what was going on around him, but he was happy _in spite of_ the way of things, and that was something Keith wanted to keep well-protected.

And that morning, as it happened, when Keith finally found Lance, it was because he heard him rather than saw him. The familiar, loud pitch of his laugh stirred Keith from his brooding thoughts, though he thought it sounded a little harsher than normal. Keith blinked around, searching for that familiar green coat and crooked smile, only to find an obstructed view of the former and a tight, forced-version of the latter.

Keith needed a moment for the image to process, head tilting like a child trying to figure which crayon would be best. Across the platform, beside the stairs where some crappy advertisement for a local law firm was peeling behind paneled glass, was Lance, having been evidently backed up to the wall by a blond guy with sand-colored, long hair, and who was blocking his path. . He touched Lance’s arms and sort of held onto him when he tried to very pointedly move around him, and it was plenty clear that Lance was clearly uncomfortable.

You can take three guesses as to what Keith might have done next – though, you’ll probably only really need one.

Keith tried to keep his voice cool, his expression as mild as possible. “Lance? Are you okay?”

“Oh, Keith, _thank_ _god_ – uhh.” The image of relief, Lance let out a frosty, uncomfortable laugh before scooting pointedly down the wall in Keith’s direction, away from the stranger.

The guy had long, sandy blonde hair, tucked beneath a hat and a jean jacket-hoodie combo. He gave Keith a skeptical look. “Whose this, babe?”

Lance grit his teeth before turning instead to Keith. “Keith, this is my _ex_ , Rolo. I was _just_ in the middle of trying to kindly remind him _why we broke up in the first place_.”

“C’mon, Lance, I’ve told you, it was a _misunderstanding,_ ” Rolo interrupted, rolling his eyes at Lance.

Lance let out a dry laugh “I’m sure it was. Rolo, this is Keith, my – ”

Oddly enough, Lance paused, like he swallowed the letters needed to form whatever word he’d been about to say. Keith snatched the opportunity, and, subsequently, Lance’s hand that was hanging loose by his side, and laced their fingers together.

“Boyfriend,” he stated, plainly meeting Rolo’s gaze. “Nice to meet you. So, was there something you needed, or…?”

After a beat of silence, Keith squeezed Lance’s hand, and it seemed to be enough to return him to the present.

“R-right. Well, uh, anyways, our train is almost here, so we should probably go.” He shot a look at Keith, but it went unseen as he continued to hold Rolo’s now-glare, the faintest suggestion of a smirk on his lips. “It was nice running into you – actually, no, what am I saying? It wasn’t nice at all, and please never try talking to me again,” and with that, Lance spun around and pulled Keith along, towards the front of the platform in the general area where they usually waited together.

Once Lance stopped walking, he closed his eyes, and Keith decided to keep his hold on Lance’s hand steady – if Rolo was still watching from behind them, best keep up the act for a little longer. The boy took a deep breath in through his nose, and the exhale came out as a stream of mist, white as the snow that dusted the station’s awning.

Keith just drank from his coffee, waiting, giving Lance the chance to gather his thoughts.

Scarcely having time to finish the gulp, Lance’s eyes flew open and he turned to Keith. “Sorry about that. Thanks for, you know…”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind. Pushy ex’s are terrible.”

“Yeah,” Lance agreed with a small smile, lopsided as ever. _Cute._ “Pushy, _cheating_ ex’s are especially bad.”

Keith just laughed, and Lance joined him, though probably for different reasons. (Keith thought the idea of anyone _cheating_ on Lance positively _hilarious_ , because, what kind of fucking _idiot_? Lance just liked it when Keith laughed; he found the sound infectious, given that it was such a rarity.)

The lingering tension from the encounter melted away thereafter, and Lance launched back into his familiar series of questions. “So, how was your break? How were Adam and Shiro?”

Their usual banter resumed for the remaining twenty minutes before their train arrived, catching up on their respective holiday activities, which was taken largely by Lance recounting a story about a drama surrounding something called _pastelitos_. (Apparently, they were very similar to those little pie-bite-folded-dough-with-filling things you could buy in the bakery section of the grocery store.)

As soon as 8:36 AM rolled around, their train whipping into the station with an especially bitter wind, Lance crooked his usual grin and Keith followed right behind him as a number of bodies all shuffled through the open freight doors.

Now, part of Keith was pretty sure he was currently dead, or that there was an extremely strong hallucinogenic in his coffee – he reassured himself that if he wasn’t yet dead, it would be any moment with how fucking _erratic_ his heart was beating – because it was 8:36 AM, and Lance hadn’t let go of his hand yet.

Lance stood with him this time, not making his usual beeline for the window seat, but they didn’t go towards Keith’s corner, either. They moved towards a slightly less crowded part near the front, Lance holding onto a support beam and Keith taking one of the overhead hanging metal loops.

And, after that day, neither of them commented on it, nor did either of them that particularly initiate it, but their fingers would inevitably end up wound together. Sometimes, it was Lance playing with Keith’s gloves while he told one of his stories, always with enough theatrics to make any thespian proud; other times, it would be Keith, catching his hand to get his attention when Lance would get distracted.

It was just part of the commute now. It was just part of their normal.

(And, well, if Keith maybe shot a smug glare in the direction of two particular goons every morning when he got off for his stop, then… Lance didn’t need to know.)

 

* * *

 

**[LANCE]**

_Oh fuck, have mercy._

Keith had just laughed so hard he snorted, just a little, and Lance almost fucking _swooned_.

Considering Lance had said a prayer, once upon a time (eight months ago?), to never see Rolo’s stupid face ever again, he was really, _really_ glad whatever higher order might be out there that they didn’t listen to him – because, thanks to that asshole cornering Lance at Allegheny, Keith held his hand. Keith was a nice, good guy, so of course he would look out for Lance, pretend to be his boyfriend while they were at the station and on the train to keep the other ‘Rolo’s’ of the city away, but even so, Lance was one-thousand percent indulging himself, willfully ignoring that in favor of the possibility that there was genuine affection behind the gesture. Sometimes, it was so convincing, Lance forgot they were pretending at all.

They still bickered. A lot, actually, often about stupid things (Keith tried to tell him to buy some gloves, for example, and Lance tried to explain why that was an economically unsound idea for someone as forgetting as him), but they held hands while doing it. Keith smiled a lot more often, which was doing Bad Things™ to Lance’s blood pressure, and, if there’d been any doubt before, mornings were definitely the best part of his day now.

What’s that? You’re suggesting that Lance has a _crush_ on Keith?

Don’t be ridiculous.

Lance _hated_ Keith.

He hated Keith for thawing the bone-deep chill that had settled into his body just by filling the space between his fingers, because now nothing would ever make him as warm as holding those stupid half-gloved hands. He hated the little fireworks that went off in his chest when Keith would roll his eyes while trying not to smile, or the way he looked at Lance, attentive, like his dumb stories were somehow interesting.

He hated Keith so much that he wanted to punch him in the face. With his mouth? Maybe?

He hated Keith because he didn’t have a crush on him at all – Lance had _fallen_ for him. Fallen faster than snow during their Northeastern winter, harder than the sheets of black ice on the roads, more readily than a child on Christmas morning ready to tear through miles of wrapping paper. It was like that play, with the three ghosts of past, present, and future – Lance hated him in high school, he hated him now, and gods, if Lance didn’t want to hate him forever after, too.

Hunk and Pidge were absolutely no help at all, by the way. Lance would text them throughout the day, bemoaning his hatred for Keith, only for Hunk to send back heart emojis, and for Pidge to tell him some variation of, “ _idk man, that’s pretty gay_.”

Just thinking about them made Lance tired.

They’d had nine train rides together since both of their classes had resumed, today being their tenth, and tomorrow being their last. It was a Thursday, six days until Christmas, and the day of Keith’s last final before the semester was over. Lance still had two exams today and three the next day, but at least he wouldn’t have to ride in tomorrow alone – Keith had to go back to his campus for some meeting with his thesis advisor before the break. (Because, of _course_ Keith would write a thesis in fucking _astrophysics_ ; the guy’s whole existence seemed to be motived by making everyone else look like slackers.)

They’d been waiting on their train, and Lance had just finished explaining to Keith how he’d broken his phone during the _Pokémon Go_ craze by accidentally throwing the whole device at a particularly frustrating Gengar outside of Hunk’s house – which is to say, directly into on-coming traffic.

Once he finished laughing at the expense of Lance’s weak, weak heart, Keith shook his head and sighed. “So what did you end up telling your parents?”

“Uh, the truth?”

“Really?”

Lance raised both brows, his voice taking on a slightly haunted quality. “I value my life too much to lie to my Mamá, Keith.”

“That’s admirable,” he said with a chuckle. “I lie to Shiro about everything so he’ll leave me alone.”

“Well, _Shiro’s_ not Rosa McClain.” Lance paused to check the time. It was only 8:25 AM. “Mmm. I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick, be right back.”

Nodding, Keith’s hand slipped from his and went back to cradling his same travel mug. Lance spun away, zipped into the station and to the bathroom as fast as he could because it was fucking _cold_ and he wanted his hand to be _warm_ , thank you very much. The whole process took but three minutes, so naturally, he was surprised when he returned to find Keith no longer alone.

Like any proper gumshoe, Lance slid back behind the corner and squinted around it, studying Keith and this new, slightly older and definitely-at-least-a-little-attractive guy he was talking to. Who was he? Did Keith know him? It wasn’t Shiro – Shiro had a prosthetic and a big scar on his nose, so he’d been told – and the only other friend Keith ever really talked about was a blonde girl named Romelle, and tall-dark-and-handsome here definitely _wasn’t_ her.

They were too far away for Lance to hear anything, but he didn’t like what he was seeing. It was too… _familiar_. Too fond. Nuh-uh, that wasn’t going to fly.

It was like déjà vu, except, could you really experience the repeated memory if you’re on the opposite side of things? Or did that not count? Lance wasn’t sure, but if it _could_ happen, that must be what this was, some sort of call to fate or shifting in the… in the _cosmic winds_ or _something_ , because, why _else_ would this opportunity present itself if not to properly pay Keith back for that embarrassing encounter with Rolo a few weeks ago? Now it was _Lance’s_ turn to swoop in all-smooth-like, pretend it wasn’t a _big fucking deal_ to call Keith his _boyfriend_ and hold _his_ hand. In fact, that sounded like a nice little bit of revenge – who did Keith think he was, anyways, going and making Lance’s emotions turn all stupid? It wasn’t at all fair, so hey, why not throw in some McClain charm while he’s at it?

Leaning back behind his hide-out for just a quick second, Lance tried not to focus on the piston that had conveniently replaced his heart and the nervous knot twisting in his stomach. He took a deep breath, fixed his expression with his most charming, winningest smile, and walked around the corner.

And you better _believe_ he was perfect, too. Nice, casual approach; body language open and voice measured to the _tee_ of just the right amount of fake-jealousy, pseudo-affection, and false-curiosity.

Well, he was actually curious, but that’s beside the point. The _point_ was that Lance fucking nailed it. Tucked himself right into Keith’s side, probably closer than they ever would have stood otherwise, laced their hands together, smiled at them both. He with the _epitome_ of warmth and grace and class.

“Oh, sweetheart, sorry about that.” Lance pulled their joined hands up and pressed a quick kiss into Keith’s fingers, smiling sweetly. He hadn’t a fucking _clue_ where this confidence was coming from, but he was definitely going to go with it.

Keith made a noise that could not be aptly described as human – it was more like a wolf had choked on its dying breath while trying to gorge itself on its last meal, mixed with a wheezy, chainsmoker’s attempt at imitating Freddie Mercury’s range. It sounded decidedly painful.

Nodding to the stranger, Lance tagged on, “And who is this? I didn’t know you were expecting someone.”

The other guy’s eyebrows _flew_ up into his hairline, looking from Keith to Lance in… what, _amusement?_ That wasn’t the reaction Lance was exactly hoping for, but hey, he’d take it. After this, not only would he and Keith be even again, but maybe Lance could get his own feelings sorted out and stop with this stupid, _I-hate-you-so-let’s-make-out_ phase he was currently in the throes of.

Then, the man extended a hand between them. “I’m Adam. Keith’s brother-in-law.”

_Well then._

Lance would like the record to reflect that his tombstone should include the following: he was a good brother, a fantastic friend, and a really, _really_ shitty detective.

Dully, he extended his own hand, body officially acting on autopilot as he plummeted into the fiery depths of hellish embarrassment.

“L-Lance, nice to meet you,” he mumbled, and the smile Adam returned was positively glowing.

He had a firm, steady handshake – one that said, _I’m an adult, with a husband, and Keith is my brother-in-law, and welcome to the family_ – and when he turned his attention back to Keith, he looked comically expectant.

“It’s really great to meet you, Lance. I’m surprised Keith has found someone who can put up with him – then again, I married ‘Kashi, so I supposed miracles do happen. And I don’t suppose he knows about this?”

Keith opened his mouth and closed it again.

“Um.”

Laughing, Adam clapped him on the shoulder, and Lance winced like it had been him. “Oh, Keith. He’ll be so mad that he’ll probably burst into proud tears. He’s a bit of a mess sometimes.”

Both boys chuckled, probably still burnt red all the way up to their ears, and Adam seemed just joyed by the sight of them. Lance could practically _hear_ the tenderness in his eyes: _Ah, young love!_

Where was the train? Lance needed to throw himself down on the tracks _yesterday_.

“Well, I was just stopping by to pick up some transit passes for my family, so I’ll leave you guys to it. Oh! Wait, that reminds me, Lance – will you be in town much longer?”

“Umm. I’m heading to New York on Sunday.”

Adam sent him a bright grin, and to Keith, a bit of a chastising glare, before adding, “Well, that’s perfect. My family’s having a Christmas party tomorrow, and everyone is allowed a plus one. You have to come!”

“I – well – I shouldn't _impose_ ,” Lance coughed, his face hotter than the fucking sun. “I don’t, _you_ should just, have, family! Ha ha.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve got to come; Keith needs someone to make him stop sulking in the corner – my parents are starting to think he’s not even all human.”

Despite the tension, or maybe _because_ of the tension, Lance let out a laugh. Keith had not so much as moved – maybe he stopped breathing? – and just continued to stare blankly ahead. Adam was just as down-to-earth as Keith had described, and it made that much harder to try to interrupt him and explain the misunderstanding.

“Well, looks like that’s probably you guys,” Adam leaned around them, nodding at the train as it rolled in, promptly at 8:36 AM. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow. I’d say, business casual? There’s no need to bring anything – it was nice meeting you, Lance! Good luck on your exams, Keith.”

The din of people moving around them, the freight doors opening, gears grinding to a halt – it all was pretty much lost compared to the heavy thudding of Lance’s heart as he finally, _finally_ , looked over to Keith once Adam had disappeared down the stairs.

“So…” he tried, voice cracking over the single syllable. “Adam’s… nice.”

Keith blinked a few times before focusing in on Lance’s face, and he looked – well, not angry, exactly. Confused, and maybe a little frantic, but not angry.

“Did you just – and we…? And Adam… Christmas Party?”

Pursing his lips, Lance decided for the both of them that the horrible mortification of the last five minutes could be dealt with _on_ the train, finding some small amount of will to lead Keith by the hand and towards their usual spot.

Once they boarded and the doors pressed back together, the motivation fizzled out, and Lance’s own frayed edges began to feel a little exposed. Why did he do that? Normal people don’t do stunts like that. Hell, _Keith_ didn’t even do that when he saw the confrontation with Rolo, he just walked up and asked if Lance was okay. So much could have been avoided, and with that thought, Lance swallowed roughly and began to untwine their fingers.

He really made a mess of things, didn’t he?

But the moment his grip began to slide away, the tatters of his confidence that hadn’t been completely shredded sparked with a jolt of surprise. Keith’s grip tightened, holding him there.

“Um…” Lance coughed, looking at their linked hands, his question unsaid.

Keith shook his head back and forth, a small flicker of a smile quirking his lips. “No, it’s… I don’t think I can look Adam in the eye and try to explain what happened. It’d be nice not to be alone at the party, to be honest, and Adam already insisted. We, er, do _this_ every day anyways, right?”

The hold on his hand tightened ever-so-slightly, just enough to be clearly intentional, and Lance swore he felt the breath leave his body. It was a gut-punch of words that amounted to something untenably hopeful, of something that fell from his chest and gathered salt and mud from the tracks on the floor of the train cart, something like a lie becoming true, like Santa isn’t real but the magic of the holidays remained anyways; it was a newfound appreciation for something that could have been ruined, but had been recovered.

“Lance?” Keith moved slightly in front of him, voice pitched with concern, brow furrowed. “You good?”

“Oh.” He exhaled, pulse fluttering in his veins. “Yeah – no, no, I’m good. That sounds fine, fun, for sure. Good. Yeah. Let’s do it.”

Keith sounded nervous, which actually helped Lance to relax a little. “Really? You’re sure you don’t mind?”

Scoffing, he felt the edge of fear begin to uncoil in his stomach, the knots working themselves out with the gentle shuttering of the train flying down the tracks. “Pff, Keith, I am like, the _life_ of parties. Christmas isn’t an exception. You’ll be sorry you ever had to attend one of these things without me!”

At that, the other boy snorted and rolled his eyes and – yes, this was good. Normal. Better.

“I’m _sure._ ”

They spent the remainder of the ride, and then that subsequent evening through text (which Lance enjoyed more than he cared to admit, seeing as Keith hardly seemed to know how to even use his phone), playing about five consecutive games of twenty questions (‘twenty questions’ sounded better than ‘over one-hundred questions’ in Lance’s mind, so don’t challenge him on this – over one-hundred questions sounded outright insane and he wasn’t prepared to face that possibility quite yet). Lance covered every base and then some: what he should expect, who would be there, where they should meet, how he should dress – each answer then bridging out into a million more lines of inquiry, all of which Keith answered with surprising patience. Though it was difficult to tell his exact motivation, Lance thought he actually did seem excited by the prospect of not having to face, what he dubbed, a _Wright Family Christmas_ alone.

But then, maybe Lance was projecting, just a little. He _might_ be a little eager to do something social with Keith that wasn’t riding the train or waiting at the station… maybe. Possibly. Just because he hated him, though. Because that’s definitely what this keyed-up energy was, this flustered and giddy feeling– _yep_ , classic rivalry emotions, nothing else.


	3. paper crowns & crayon-colored misletoe

**[LANCE]**

 

Friday morning arrived with Lance lacking in sleep, having stayed up in the back-and-forth of panic of “ _oh god please don’t let me mess this up,”_ and “ _fuck I have three exams tomorrow.”_ A fairly potent concoction to cure hypersomnia, he noted.

Lance arrived to Allegheny Station first; he hadn’t slept a wink, so with three cups of coffee at home and another in a disposal cup he picked up at the convenience store, he ended up arriving at the station absurdly early. 7:15 AM. Probably the earliest he’d ever shown up, but he was restless and he couldn’t stand sitting in his apartment any longer.

The lilac-tint evoked by wintery dawn, warming the usual steely blue of metropolitan mornings was, in his opinion, worth the early start. The city was beginning to rise, a cacophonic backdrop of cars and people on cell-phones, joggers and dog-walkers braving the biting cold, cafes that were already lined out the door. His breath was a steady fog and his mind was surprisingly clear, his skin chilled but chest satisfyingly warm.

The whole meditative time helped him to settle while he waited for Keith, and two trains ended up coming and going before his not-boyfriend arrived.

“Hey,” Keith said from behind in his usual form of greeting. “Oh. You have coffee.”

“Yeah, almost done with it, too. I needed the – ” Lance stopped, blinking down at Keith’s hands. Both of them were filled today. In one, he had his usual galvanized steel thermos, and in the other, a large, disposal red cup with a white lid. On the side, in scribbled marker, was his name scrawled into the side of a cup. “You got me… _Starbucks_?”

“Uh, well, I thought – you have most of your exams today, and you said probably wouldn't sleep well. I got up early. There’s one outside my building, so… yes?”

Lance chugged the remainder of his drink – there was really only three solid sips left – and threw it into the nearest garbage can.

Making a swish-sound effect and flipping his hand like a basketball player, Lance’s caffeine- addled brain prompted him to call out, “ _Jordan!_ ”

Keith huffed a laugh and turned away with the cups, cracking a grin. “How much coffee have you had already? Maybe this was a bad idea.”

“Keith, my man,” Lance began to sing-song the words, slinking closer like a predator with prey in its sight. “My buddy, light of my mornings, the Vegeta to my Goku,”

“Please stop.”

“Ross to my Rachel,”

“I have no idea who these people are.”

“Kacchan to my Deku,”

_“Did you just – ?”_

“Franco to my Rogen,”

“Lance, I swear to god.” Keith began backing towards the nearest trash-can (the very same Lance had just three-pointered, thank you very much), holding the cup over the bin.

Conceding with a wide grin, Lance almost pounced at him to rescue the precious caffeine from Keith’s cruelty. “Give me that fucking cup of coffee. Right fucking now.”

Keith slowly, warily, extended the red cup towards him, a look of deep regret carved into the lines of his scowl that was, frankly, too funny not to laugh at. So Lance laughed, snatched the cup, and Keith decidedly aimed a punch at his shoulder. Lance captured his fist before it could make contact, however, lacing their fingers together with the most shit-eating grin he could pull.

“This will be my fifth cup, thanks,” Lance stated, and the other boy simply huffed and rolled his eyes, the ghost of a smile cracking through his mask of annoyance.

With the exception of Lance’s now jittery hands and feet, their morning proceeded almost conspicuously normal. Keith was going in for that meeting with his advisor, so he hadn’t brought a bookbag or anything, and Lance went through his schedule of exams for the day. By the time the train was arriving, they’d shifted topics to the more pressing matter of the Christmas party.

“So, the plan is, what, we’ll do what we do every day, right? Just, you know, _this_ ,” Lance lifted their joined hands as they settled into their usual place on the train. “And if anyone asks, we’re together?”

Keith bit his lip and nodded, scowling at their hands like they had someone personally offended him. “That’s… yeah. I guess so.”

“Mmm. Cool. Cool cool cool.” Pausing, Lance did a quick scan of the map on the wall. “You said they’re in Baltimore? How do you usually get there?”

“Oh, right. Let me look up the boarding times.” Keith frowned at the same map before sighing and releasing Lance’s hand, fishing around his jacket pocket for his phone.

Bemused, Lance looked over his shoulder while he opened the transit app. “You don’t plan your trips in advance? Like, at all?”

“Don’t really need to,” he replied absently. “This whole strip of the East coast has pretty good transit. You could hop on a train and in a few hours be almost anywhere.”

The topic of coordinating how they would meet for Adam’s took up the remainder of their time until they reached Keith’s stop. They agreed to meet at their usual station to purchase tickets, and from there, they would walk to the APSTA line about a half-mile south. Lance had never been to Baltimore, but it was supposedly just an hour away, give or take a ten minutes. The party began at five, but Keith vowed he would not show up any earlier than 5:30 PM (to avoid as much of the initial start-of-party awkwardness as possible). The closest time that would accommodate Keith’s commitment to being fashionably late – ( _“Please never say that again.”)_ – meant they would take the APSTA 4:25 train, arrive in downtown Baltimore around 5:30, and walk the remaining ten minutes or so.

It was supposed to snow, of course, because that would be just their fucking luck.

Apparently, a _Wright Family Christmas_ was quite the ordeal, and judging by Keith’s impressive deadpan expression when he explained the whole set-up, it sounded like the kind of thing he would hate, but more importantly, exactly like the kind of thing Lance would absolutely _love_.

Adam’s parents, and some combination of his aunts and uncles, would rent out an event space in one of the big hotels – probably a Hyatt or Four Seasons or some fancy shit like that – enough to provide space for at least a hundred people.

“Christ, and I thought McClain Christmases were a big deal. We’ve got like, thirty people, _tops_.”

Keith nodded gravely. “Adam’s family is… well, they’re pretty loaded but they’re also pretty, uh, _generous_ , I guess? They’re very much the sort of, ‘the more the merrier’ types. Hence his insistence that you come along.”

“Hey!” Lance nudged him in the ribs. “ _Maybe_ he insisted because he thought I seemed like good boyfriend material, ass.”

With a smug grin, Keith took a quick sip of his coffee as the train slowed for his stop. “Doubtful.”

“I hate you,” Lance reminded with a scowl, and the other boy just laughed. It was such a cute fucking sound that it was one-hundred percent decidedly unfair, and Lance would like to file a formal complaint with their divine creator on the matter.

(First of all, _where do you get off_ adding so much ‘ _I’m hot but also cute and smart’_ when you decided to craft this beautiful, mulleted asshole? Did they find it _funny_? Because Lance’s heart sure didn’t; he felt the on-rushing cardiac episode creep closer with every passing day.)

“I know.” Keith shot him a smile that could – probably _would_ – break his heart into little itty bitty pieces, squeezing his fingers lightly before heading off the train.

 

* * *

 

**[KEITH]**

Keith didn’t have a meeting with his thesis advisor. They met yesterday after his last exam and tied up a few of the theoretical materials before he would submit the proposal for review after the break, so for all intents and purposes, he was done with school the remainder of the year.

So what if he woke up early on his first Friday of break to ride the train with Lance? Maybe Keith made up a _little_ white lie about it. Not a big deal, okay?

In Keith’s defense, when he originally told Lance he planned on meeting with his advisor, he’d only done it because he thought Friday would be the last day they’d both be in town together for almost three weeks. Keith wanted to spend a little more time with him, okay? _Sue him_.

And, okay, there was the coffee thing, too. Lance had mentioned liking Starbucks at one point, ever-envious of Keith’s morning coffee, so yeah, okay, he stopped in and bought him one. It wasn’t a _huge_ deal. The drink might not have even been good – he really had no idea what to order or how Lance even liked his coffee, so he resorted to letting the barista decide.

It was, in a roundabout way, Keith’s fault for all of this. He should have spoken up when Lance… socially ambushed him in front of Adam, or perhaps he shouldn’t have started them on the testy waters of fake-dating in the first place. So this was his version of an apology.

And, well, if he maybe he thought Lance was a little cute when he was hyper, that was just a bonus. He was _definitely_ extra annoying… but cute. Like a really excitable puppy, but instead of petting, you just want to kiss the hell out of him.

Ugh.

Okay. _Fine_. Maybe this was a little more than just admiration. Maybe Keith was a little bit weak for his smile and stupid jokes, or the curved tip of his nose and the smatter of the freckles patterned over his cheekbones. Maybe what Keith really wanted was to shut him up with a kiss instead of just squeezing his hand – not that he was complaining – but god if Lance’s lips didn’t look _soft._

After Lance had pressed a kiss into Keith’s fingers in front of Adam, it was all he could fucking do not to just kiss him.

Keith’s lips were chapped and dry, subject to his own nervous picking and biting. The quick press of Lance’s lips, by comparison, had felt like lush, softened clay, like the kind he used to spin in pottery class in high school. Warm and malleable and aching to be molded and touched and tested.

Fuck. He _really_ wanted Lance, didn’t he?

Sighing, Keith looked back at his own reflection in the paneled glass that lined 30th Street Station. He had dated before, but the more he tried to draw comparisons to those experiences, it just made him feel a little more unsure about the whole thing; the notches in his own metaphorical belt had mostly just ended up in cheap, meaningless sex. Which, for then-Keith, was fine, and maybe exactly what he needed at the time. Regretting things now wouldn’t do him much good, so he tried to just take the experiences as what they were – his younger self, doing younger, dumb things.

What he had with Lance wasn’t like that at all.

(Don’t misunderstand, because, oh, yes, Keith _very much_ wanted that, too, but it was never near the front of his attention when they were together.)

They were all small touches, quick glances, chased away smirks and lots of laughter; they weren’t a good match, not complementary in the traditional sense, but that sort of made the whole thing even better. Lance brought out different types of anger and playfulness and even warmth Keith didn’t know he had, because everything he felt with Lance was always reactionary and he had never met anyone remotely like Lance before.

 

* * *

 

For as perfectly collected as Keith at least tried to act, he realized that Lance may be onto his… ulterior motives.

There was no way for him to tell if it was intentional or not. If it wasn’t, it was the world’s best accident; if it was, maybe that meant Lance was at least humoring the idea? Because while Keith loved the olive-green jacket that he’d grown to associate with Lance, it was absent today, along with his usual dozen or so changes of sweatshirts and jeans that Keith had gotten used to seeing in the mornings.

No, see, tonight, Lance dressed well. Like, _really_ well. The sort of _I’m-happy-to-be-seen-out-in-public-with-you_ level of well, because, Christ – pretend or not, Keith would be shamelessly proud to be mistaken for Lance’s boyfriend when he looked that good.

He wore dark gray slacks and dress shirt of the same shade, a simple but high-quality frosty blue tie that looked way too fucking good with his bright eyes, and a well-fitted charcoal colored coat, long enough to be formal but not so much that it looked ridiculous. The usual little curls of his bangs that framed his face had been tamed somewhat, not to the point where it seemed unnatural, but just smoothed and styled lightly.

The best accessory was that damning smile, though. It was like a jolt straight to Keith’s fucking heart when he spotted Lance waiting outside the station doors at Allegheny, who hadn’t noticed him immediately, absently nodding his head to some nonexistent beat, but when he noticed Keith approach? Just, fucking, _wow._

_I want to kiss him._

But he didn’t, not yet, even if his hands practically itched with the temptation to reach out and hold Lance’s chin and guide his lips to Keith’s own. It was maddening.

“Hi,” Lance said with a big breath, like it had been fucking months since they’d seen each other, and to be suddenly reunited was like a breath of fresh air. Did he have any idea how much Keith wanted him? Any clue at all? It was impossible to tell when he looked so fucking happy about everything.

Keith managed a response after a slight pause, smiling belatedly. “Hey. Tickets?”

“Got ‘em already, actually. I figured it’s a little bit of paying you back for… well… the coffee, and embarrassing you in front of Adam. Call us even?”

Keith was so surprised he had nothing to say, just blinked owlishly as a high-gloss ASPTA trip pass was placed into his open hand.

“Oh. Well. Thanks, then. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Uh, duh, I know that,” Lance scoffed like Keith had just insulted his intelligence somehow, already marching due South towards the ASPTA line. A crooked smile was tossed over his shoulder. “Now let’s go already Mullet or we’ll be even _more_ fashionably late.”

They were not more fashionably late, for the record. Well, no – they weren’t fashionably _anything_. (Maybe Lance was fashionable something? But they definitely _weren’t_ fashionably late.) Cut Keith some slack, yeah? The idea of having to show up right when all the other guests began awkwardly trickling in sounded especially painful; if they showed up just a little later, then the family could start to section themselves off into little groups of chatty older women and the bawdy-scotch drinking men – granted, there were only a handful of each of these in Adam’s extended family, it was still plenty too much for Keith’s tastes.

In fact, most of the Wright family were actually pretty nice – so long as you could get past the slight uppish atmosphere, the fancy drinks and dress, the high-flown language – they had always been nothing but nice to Keith since Shiro entered their family, and he by association. Adam had always treated him like as a s ort of little brother, and the general sentiment extended to Adam’s various cousins and aunts, uncles and grandparents. They weren’t the most tolerable lot, but it would be an falsehood to outright say Keith didn’t like them.

Now, bearing that in mind, it was also true that Keith was not entirely sociable, even under ideal circumstances, so he actually was grateful for Lance’s company (not just for the obvious reasons, okay?)

Lance was a little quieter on the train into Baltimore than their usual commute, but Keith supposed that was likely a product of combined travel time and nerves. It was a longer ride than either of them were used to taking together, so the conversation tapered off naturally around the half-hour mark, at which point Keith could practically _hear_ the little ‘ding’ of a lightbulb going off above Lance’s head when he nearly leapt in place, digging around in his jacket pockets and drawing out some headphones.

Keith didn’t think much of it – he usually listened to music on the train, especially to Shiro and Adam’s (or, occasionally, we would put on that podcast Shiro recommended to him, _Things They Don’t Want You to Know,_ which was actually pretty good as far as his feeding his on-going interest in cryptids). It wasn’t until Lance was poking his arm, a headphone flopping loosely in his hand, that Keith realized he intended to _share_ his music with him.

The thought made his heart flutter, just a little, and he accepted with a small smile. He could get used to this.

Upon arriving at the downtown station in Baltimore, the two fumbled their way to the nearest exit and stood outside of the station. Keith punched in the address to the hotel on his phone and led them towards W Biddle St. and Calvert, upon which the monstrosity of a hotel took up most of the city block, but, due to the snow, their progress walking there was a little slow-going. The sidewalks had been shoveled, but Baltimore wasn’t quite as addled with pedestrians to pound its salted pavements flat and dry, so both boys took to the occasional high-stepping through other people’s foot tracks — Lance looked a little too frozen by the time they arrived, but he insisted that he was fine so Keith could do little but begrudgingly accept his explanation.

Inside _The Ivy_ , the lobby appeared mildly festive, _just_ the right amount of secular Christmas so as not alienate any one group too much. The Wrights had their Christmas party here two years ago, so Keith vaguely remembered what to do. As he walked forward to the desk to check-in, he vaguely realized that Lance had floated away, gazing around the lobby, eyes tracing the lights and poinsettias that lined the walls, picking up a complementary cup of hot cocoa by the elevators.

“Good evening. Can I help you?” The concierge greeted him with the perfect amount of professionalism. Her gold-plated name-tag was engraved with a smartly printed script, reading _Mira._

“Uh, I’m just checking in for the Wright event. Adam Wright and Takashi Shirogane usually reserve a block of rooms?”

“Oh, of course,” Mira chirped dutifully, fingers flying over her keyboard. “Name?”

“Last name Kogane.” After a thoughtful pause, he added, “The room is usually a single, but it might be a double this year.”

Mira hummed, her head rocking back and forth while she searched. “Mmm. Oh, nope, looks like it’s a single suite, just on the floor above the Mezzanine — that’s where the reserved space should be. Room is M1 012. One key card is standard for single suits, but will you need a key card for your…?”

She leaned around him, eyebrow raised at Lance who had since struck up a conversation with the doorman. Keith could barely stop from rolling his eyes – couldn’t he just stand still for literally five minutes?

Sighing, Keith looked back to her. “My boyfriend, yes. Maybe a third key. He’s sort of forgetful.”

“Oh I know how _that_ is,” Mira nodded seriously. “There you go. Three keys, and they should deactivate at check out tomorrow, so you don’t have to worry about returning them. There’s a list beside the dresser for the operator and room service, and the front desk is always staffed if you need anything at all.”

With a sincere, if not slightly nervous, smile, Keith accepted the cards and turned away.

“Lance?” He called carefully, almost alarmed at how quickly the discussion with the doorman had turned intense, both nodding gravely as they discussed… something. “You ready?”

“Oh, yeah, ‘course. Happy holidays,” Lance nodded towards the man who bowed his head with a smile.

“Same to you, enjoy your party.”

“Will do!” Lance gave a thumbs up as he slid back up besides Keith, who had both brows raised as they set off towards the elevators.

Lance gave him a look. “What?”

“You don’t have to make friends with literally every stranger you meet, you know that, right?”

At that, the tanned-skinned boy scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Of course I do, but it’s easy to make conversation with people on the job. Imagine having to work right now? Wouldn’t you be interested in some friendly conversation that isn’t just holding the door open for rich people?”

Keith couldn’t really argue with that, so he just kept his focus forward and went towards the elevators, jamming his finger on the button for Mezzanine. At such a place as this, they’d ditched their bags immediately upon arrival, surely already having been moved to their rooms.

Once they stepped off the elevator, Keith had to physically drag Lance out by the wrist, his jaw going slack and his eyes wide at the reception on the other side of the golden doors, glossed to perfection. In fairness, Keith couldn’t really blame him for his reaction, as even after all these years the sight was still stunning, the brightest, most opulent version of winter permeating the very air, rich with the flavors of excess. From just a quick breath, he could already taste with the general tang of alcoholic bitters mixed with the cloying sweets of every manner of bite-sized confections, nutmeg and cinnamon and cider and eggnog already being levied out to guests by a small army of servers strolling around in their best vestments.

The room itself was an open plane of white marble floors, practically glowing beneath a web of chandeliers that dangled and threaded together by chains inlaid with Swarovski crystals, but the decorations otherwise were purposefully downplayed as a result. It amounted to a sort of... what, _rustic_ look? That might be the right word – a bit ironic in Keith’s opinion, given the general decadence of the hotel – but he would admit that it held a certain amount of classic charm, something that typical gaudy tinsel, Santa Clauses, big red ribbons and glittering gold ornaments would have entirely missed. There was fresh evergreen branches and pine wood, set in the center of tables hundreds of tea lights providing extra ambiance to the overhead lights. Tendrils of ivy snaked around the walls, little clumps of holly accenting the strands on occasion, stretching out and overtop the central dance floor, which was mostly vacant at the time, leading all the way back to a bar where small clusters of partygoers had begun to gather, and there were tiny strings of lights that wove between the dishes set out on dining tables, inviting guests forward to indulge in the festivity.

“Wow,” Lance said after a long, _long_ pause, evidently remembering himself only after Keith had slowly led them around the room and towards one of the drink tables. He got himself water, just to start, but figured he’d graduate to something warmer and more seasonal later. With all the panache of a child on their first Disneyland trip, Lance threw back his head and finished the cup of hot chocolate from the lobby in one quick movement, sighing in a satisfied sort of way before dismissing his cup in search of another.

“More hot chocolate?” Keith quizzed, watching in amusement as Lance began to load up a fresh, porcelain mug this time, eyes casting over what was labeled as a ‘hot chocolate bar’ that had the epitome of every child’s best wishes, and every dentist’s worst nightmare, splayed out across the linen tablecloths.

Lance didn’t even dignify his question with a response, already piling in peppermint sticks, marshmallows, graham cracker crumbs, chocolate syrup, whipped cream and about six different scoops of something-or-other into his cup with the look of absolute focus, like this was about to be judged for a Michelin star and Lance had every expectation of getting a perfect three-star rating.

In the meantime, Keith cast a long look over the room, spotting about as many familiar faces as not, trying to wrack his brain for a catalogue of names even though he knew it wouldn’t be fruitful – he’d always been shit at remembering people’s names, if Lance wasn’t evidence enough of the fact. It didn’t take terribly long to spot Shiro and Adam, standing beside each other near the groups at the bar talking to Adam’s sister, but they hadn’t yet spotted him.

Mercifully, he hoped Adam hadn’t over exaggerated the situation to Shiro; the older man texted Keith yesterday about Lance, which he promptly ignored, not really wanting to indulge their curiosities on the matter, considering the existing false pretense.

“There we go,” Lance declared smartly from behind him, and Keith glanced over his shoulder to find a mug being shoved into his hands, positively overflowing with candies and marshmallows and whipped cream. It wasn’t nearly as Frankenstein a creation as Lance’s own cup, but it was definitely not what Keith would ever craft for himself – least of all for dietary reasons.

“Uh, thanks, but I’m lactose intolerant.” Keith carefully began to set the cup down on the nearest cocktail table, worried that one wrong move would end in his gloves sticky with chocolate and sugar.

Lance made an offended noise. “I _know that_ , you’ve said it like, three times before. The bar’s got vegan and lactose-free shit on it that’s labeled, now drink it. I slaved over that cup for all of thirty seconds for you.”

Half in disbelief, and maybe half in flattered, flustered surprise, Keith laughed at him and then back at the cup. What an asshole, to act so thoughtful for no good reason. Keith could only sigh and concede to drink the way-too-sweet-sugary-madness that Lance had made for him, but it settled well with his own personal level of bitterness.

A balance, you could even say.

“Keith! There you are!” A voice called from somewhere to his left, and turning, he spotted Adam and Shiro winding their way through guests to get to them. They’d more-or-less accidentally posted up at one of the nearby tables to the drink table, mostly by consequence of Lance’s need to make them both horrendous drinks, so it was only a matter of time before one of the two men did a sweep of the room and spotted them.

“Hi Shiro, hi Adam,” he called dully over the light instrumental music, some sort of philharmonic version of classic Christmas songs. “Merry Christmas.”

Grinning, Adam slowed to a stop across the table, and Keith could very clearly tell Shiro was sizing Lance up, scrutinizing him in a _big-brother_ sort of way. He almost laughed.

“And to you too, Keith,” said Adam with a light sigh, drinking something dark from a glass that he suspected to be scotch. “Hello, Lance, and welcome! First time in Baltimore, right?”

“Ah, hi, yes. Nothing like go big or go home, huh? This place is amazing,” Lance replied, giving a pointed look around at all the decorations. “I’m definitely glad you invited me. Thank you, again.”

“Of course – I’m glad I ran into you guys, because god knows Keith doesn’t tell us anything,” Adam said with a well-meaning glare in his direction.

Shiro took the opportunity to extend his hand across the table, now smiling. “No, he doesn’t, but it’s nice to meet you. I’m Takashi – but please, call me Shiro.”

Lance paused for just a second, blinking down at the hand – Keith realized it was Shiro’s prosthetic, and almost winced at the awkward moment, but it was quickly covered when Lance accepted with a wide grin of his own.

“Nice to meet you. Keith talks about you a lot, so it feels like I sort of already know you.”

“Only good things, I’m sure,” Shiro replied with a meaningful look, at which Keith could only offer a deadpan reply.

“I’m _honest_. Take what you will from that.”

The four of them chatted for a little while longer, Lance flexing his natural talent towards conversation as he made Shiro and Adam laugh at his stories, or quizzed them on the hotel, their marriage, the city itself, or indignantly defended his sugary creation that he drank without any shame. Listening to Lance’s voice, the familiar warmth, the slight breathlessness of his laugh – it made Keith relax, and he found himself joining in their smiles and mirth easier than he would have expected.

More than once, to his chagrin, Keith caught himself staring at Lance, and when his eyes darted away, he spotted Shiro giving him a _look._ Said look made him even angrier, because fuck if his pale cheeks didn’t flush so red it looked like he was coming down with a fever, and he was so obvious that it made him want to _die._

So what if Lance’s mouth was a little hypnotizing to watch? It’s really not Keith’s fault. He was a victim, if anything, to Lance’s unfairly attractive face.

After about twenty minutes, the husbands bid them goodbye for a little while, needing to continue to make their appropriate rounds in greeting Adam’s family, at which point Lance had effectively finished his drink and Keith had… well, almost gotten through all of his. It really wasn’t bad; it was just so rich that he had to drink it slowly.

Lance’s smile basically hadn’t faded since they walked in, and it was just as bright when he turned to Keith.

“So, what now? Wanna dance, or are there other family members that are going to snipe you?”

Keith frowned, barely having heard him, distracted as he was by a cream-foam-line stuck to Lance’s upper-lip. Without thinking, his hand moved to brush it away, thumb gliding over the bow of his lips. God, they really _were_ soft, weren’t –

_Holy fuck what are you DOING?_

His whole arm reacted, whipping back to his chest like Lance had electrocuted him, and wide, icy blue eyes blinked back at him.

“S-Sorry, that was – you had a – a thing.” Keith choked out a feeble excuse, averting his eyes at all cost, because, _what the fuck, Kogane? You don’t just touch other people’s lips like that, that was – but, fuck,_ now all he could think about was doing it again.

And again.

_And again._

“Uh, n-no, it’s… not a… thanks for getting that. Good uh, ‘fake boyfriending’ there, heh.”

Still mortified, Keith just nodded and stared around the room, wondering if there was an emergency exit for his fucking brain to take, or if that would just have to be the nearest window.

After an agonizingly awkward pause, Lance set his mug down with a firm _clink_. “Well. Let’s do something. Dancing doesn’t seem like your thing,” he stated. It wasn’t a question, and he was definitely right about that.

“Hmm… oh, there’s a kids table!” Lance’s voice filled with such obvious joy that it disarmed Keith, just for a moment; he sounded as excited as a man who had just been stranded in the desert for months stumbling upon an oasis. “Let’s go play with the kiddos!”

“Oh, um, okay?” Keith trailed after Lance, a bit surprised by the abrupt decision but his ingers found automatically sought out Lance’s, intertwining easily, inevitably, and in seconds they were crossing the room without skipping a beat. Lance stopped once they arrived at a considerably shorter, longer table than the other ‘standing’ tables around the room, this one lined with a high-gloss paper instead of the familiar fabric of the other tables.

It was stocked with plentiful crayons and different types of markers, colored pencils and the like spread across from end-to-end, enough materials to make any proper elementary art school teacher proud – certainly enough to keep the children busy. Lots of construction paper and googly eyes, pom-pom puffs and pipecleaners, tape and glue sticks, popsicle sticks and rolls of string and ribbon that seemed to be intended for the children to make handmade ornaments. Honestly, it was a pretty good idea in keeping with the theme of the party while entertaining enough to hold the children’s attention while the adults did their drinking and mingling and merrymaking.

Lance did not hesitate in walking right the fuck up to the table, at which Keith thought, _oh, he really meant it,_ before immediately managing to secure the attention of all of the giggling children.

“Looks like we’ve stumbled upon a right group of little elves, haven’t we? And what are we workin’ on over here, _mis hijos?”_

The children were, just as everyone, smitten with Lance immediately. If Keith had been impressed by his ability to converse with adults and charm just about everyone he met, it paled in comparison to his charisma with kids. Those around the table, in little pretty dresses or tiny suits, all of whom were probably no older than seven, were all positively _ecstatic_ to have an adult who took interest in their respective art projects, all of them vying for Lance’s attention to show off a particularly thoughtful use of a piece of string as a reindeer tail or an expertly traced outline of Santa’s hat into the construction paper.

And holy shit if it wasn’t making Keith _melt_.

He wasn’t even sure how he got drawn into their activities, but before long Keith found himself squashed into a tiny chair at an equally tiny table, a little girl sitting in his lap as she used little ribbons to carve out pieces of Santa’s sleigh in her current masterpiece.

“Um, s‘cuse me, Uncle Keef?” The girl, Becca, with her dark hair and lightly-tanned skin, turned to face him once she’d finishing gluing all manner of ribbon to the page. She was one of Adam’s cousins and definitely had the familiar complexion. “Does this… look okay?”

Why were children so cute? Why was _Lance_ so cute? Coming over here was definitely not at all something he’d have ever done on his own, but now that they were embedded in the crafts, Keith literally could not imagine doing anything else. Trying to talk to adults about school and holidays, politics and sports and current affairs – that sounded torturous by comparison.

Smiling, he nodded. “Looks great. Who are you going to give it to?”

“My mommy. She always puts all sorts of pretty ribbons in mine and my sisters’ hair, so I thought of her while making it.”

“I bet she’ll love it,” he said with every ounce of honesty, and Becca beamed at him before turning back around.

“Umm. Uncle Keef?” Another child approached with a small pout, this time a boy, and he heard Lance snicker at him from across the table. Looking up, Keith almost burst out laughing – Lance had, evidently, volunteered himself as the model for one girl’s crown that she was trying to make by taping together two pieces of construction paper, who stood beside him with severe contemplation drawn into her brow as she appraised the crown’s integrity. He was wearing a necklace of pipecleaners in green, red, and white, and in in his lap two twin boys bounced and chattered away, both trying to get his attention to show him their renditions of different reindeers they had made.

God, that level of adorable should seriously be _illegal_.

“Hmm?” Keith blinked back at the boy, who had shyly moved closer. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, um, yes! Yes, I just, well – I um. I had a question.” He glared over his shoulder to another group, mostly girls, who giggled and howled like mad when he shot them a look. Keith raised a brow of his own in their direction.

“Sure, what is it?”

“Do you and Mr. Lance kiss like… like boyfriend-girlfriend?”

Keith flinched so suddenly, the girl in his lap let out a little surprised gasp, craning her neck back to get a better look at him, apparently now equally as invested in his answer. Across the table, Lance had stilled.

“Umm.” He shifted uncomfortably, already feeling the tell-tale sign of flush creeping up his neck. “Well, why do you ask?”

“Welllll,” the boy began, hands twisted together as he nervously rocked back and forth. “‘Cause Yulia bet you were boyfriends, since you kept holding hands and stuff before, but I told her I didn’t think so cause most of the time guys don’t kiss other guys? Even though Adam and Mr. Shiro do, so she told me if I wanted to to know I should just come ask you. Soooo… do you guys kiss and stuff?”

That was… a lot at once, and plenty more than Keith had agreed to when he volunteered to play with the children. What was worse, the kid seemed to be seriously anticipating in his answer (maybe a bit mortified to ask in front of his cousins or siblings), but genuinely curious. Keith definitely didn’t want to instill some sort of misguided homophobia by denying it, but this was uncharted territory for him – was it even appropriate to talk about this in front of kids?

“Err… well…. um.”

“Not all girls like to kiss guys, and not all guys like to kiss girls,” Lance supplied, mercifully, from across the table, his expression patient and smile soft. Many of the other children had quieted to listen. “Sometimes, there are guys, like me, who like to kiss both. There are other people who don’t want to kiss anybody, because, cooties _are_ pretty gross, right?”

Almost all of the listeners burst into obnoxious giggles, positively scandalized to be talking about kissing with two adults present, but their own embarrassment was second to Keith’s as he struggled not to smile, lowering his head so Lance might not see his obviously red cheeks.

The little boy, who Keith later learned to be named Liam, came down from his euphoric giggles with a big grin on his face.

“Okay, thank you Uncle Keef,” he said before turning away and sliding back into his little group of friends, many of whom began to giggle anew.

Lance caught his eye at that point, and even beneath the slightly dimmed lighting of the ballroom, beneath the silly paper crown and the pipecleaner necklace, he looked fucking perfect.

He would probably always think Lance looked fucking perfect, especially if he would crook a smile like the one he just decided to pull when he looked Keith’s way – it was really, really fucking hard not to vault over the table and kiss him right then and there.

For the life of him, Keith was pretty sure he’d never shown so much self-restraint, and even that was slipping.

“Hey, Becca?” Keith prodded gently, breaking eye contact at long last in favor of the little girl. She had taken to a new project with crayons, looking suspiciously like a Christmas tree. “I’m going to get up for a little bit now, could you please move?”

“‘Kay,” Becca put up no argument, smiling as she wiggled out of his lap, but not before stopping at the last second to throw her tiny arms around him in a hug. Their width barely made it over both his arms, and Keith chuckled before patting her on the back. “Thanks for playing, Uncle Keef. Where are you going?”

“Ah…” he hesitated for a moment, decidedly nervous, but he wasn’t going to back of his decision now. Swallowing his stuttering heart, which had so conveniently gotten lodged in his throat, Keith did his best to seem composed as he stood and moved around the other side of the table, beside Lance who watched with interest. “Well, I was thinking it was my turn to have a little time with Mr. Lance… maybe he’d want to dance with me?”

Doing his best to stay very still, Keith waited patiently with hand outstretched as Lance’s eyes grew wide, and behind them a small chorus of _ooh_ ’s and peels of bubbly laughter erupted from the kids. The other boy was looking at Keith’s hand like it was prepared to bite him, and the earlier nerves in his stomach changed from fluttery trepidation to outright knotting worry – shit, did he just fuck things up? Was Lance going to oblige him just because of the kids and be annoyed with him after the fact? Maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he should have just tried to explain himself – but yeah, like _that_ conversation would have gone any better – _hey, Lance, so I know we’re doing this fake-date since Adam basically forced it on us, but maybe you’d actually like to real-date, because I think I really, really fucking like you? Like, the-best-thing-that’s-happened-to-me, you-stupid-idiot-put-on-some-fucking-gloves, mornings-are-the-best-part-of-my-day-now, and goddamnit, I’m stupid and weak for that fucking smile so maybe just, give me a chance and –_

“Oh!” Lance exclaimed, visibly jolting in his tiny seat, before practically leaping out of it. With unbridled enthusiasm, and maybe even a little bit of fear, he began to furiously nod his head. “Yes! Okay!”

Easy as breathing, Keith felt the familiar tying of their fingers together, the spaces between his knuckles suddenly warm and complete, like Keith couldn’t have imagined his hand without Lance’s fit against it.

“Let’s dance, Mullet.”

 

* * *

 

**[LANCE]**

 

Lance? Freaking out? Maybe panicking?

 _No._ No way.

Definitely not… nope… nah.

About his thundering heartbeat – that was probably just the sugar from his double-dose of hot chocolate catching up to him! Yes, that was it. His sugar high was hitting and he would eventually crash; this was just Lance being hyper, not Lance being like a fourteen year old at a middle school dance freaking out because an incredibly hot boy just asked him to _dance._

That would be _ridiculous._

The sweaty palms, his slightly shaking legs, dopey smile ( _stop that! Get a grip, McClain!)_ , nervous pricking beneath his skin… yeah… definitely symptoms of the on-rushing congestive heart failure that was creeping up on him.

Well, if he was going to die, Lance would at least go out doing something he loved – dancing.

For the record, Keith was a terrible, awkward dancer. He may be in great shape and have annoyingly flawless skin for someone who hadn’t even heard of a face mask before Lance mentioned it, he definitely did not unfairly have a proclivity for dancing – that was at least one thing Lance had on him. Maybe the only thing, but hey, Lance would take what he could get.

And yet, the poorly executed swaying of his stupid hips or the unsure placement of his arms – fuck if it didn’t somehow make Keith even more endearing. _That’s_ how fucking gone Lance was for this boy, Christ. Keith clearly didn’t even _like_ dancing, nor was he very good at it, but he asked Lance to dance and was struggling through it in – in what? An attempt to pay him back for agreeing to this? To helplessly charm him even further into mullet-adoring-bliss? Whatever his angle, it was working miracles on Lance’s fucking resolve, and three weird too-fast-but-not-slow Christmas songs in, and they were laughing and teasing and Lance could have forgotten the world. He could have forgotten than they were pretending, he could have forgotten that everyone here only knew him as _Keith’s boyfriend_ , and he could have forgotten how stupidly, irrationally happy the idea made him. Lance could have just continued to lightly push or nudge the dark-haired guy, to draw out surprised little gasps of laughter from him, to maybe-not-so-accidentally brush past him with intentions he could really only portray with his body, knowing that his voice would fail to carry out such flirtations with confidence.

It would have been so _easy._ Beneath the muted light, never more than two feet apart, holding Keith’s hands or dramatically twirling him, bumping shoulders with Shiro at one point and smiling at Keith’s clear chagrin, it would have been so easy to fall in love with him.

Call Lance a fool all you want, because his own heart would readily agree. It was just something about this stupid holiday, or the frustrating cold, or something about strange fate having them crossing paths on a train, and then in the company of Lance’s ex, and then again with Adam and a terribly misjudged situation – something about all of this told him that this was okay. No, better than okay – this was right, and how things were supposed to be, and Keith laughing and eyes crinkling at the corners was how he looked best. That this ‘most wonderful time of the year’ crap maybe had some truth behind it, because Lance would be damned if he had ever been happier than he was right then.

 _Wait_ , the universe held up a pointer finger — _watch this_ , it said.

They laughed, leaning into each other as they staggered off the dance floor, Lance’s feet automatically redirecting them back towards the children, but Keith tugged them in the direction of the drinks again.

“You suck at dancing, you know that?” Lance teased, only a little breathless as Keith got himself (and, much to his pleasure,) and Lance a cup of water.

To his surprise, Keith had no comeback, instead gulping his water and sighing, slamming the cup down with a little more force that was necessary. Upon closer inspection, Lance realized he was gripping the glass so firmly his knuckles had begun to pale.

“Oh, um, I was kidding, you know?” He tried to sound nonchalant. “I had fun, even if you have two left-feet.”

The words seemed to have the opposite effect, Keith’s scowl only deepening.

“You uh, you okay bud? Should I get Shiro, or do you want some air?”

“Lance, let’s stop.”

Like a slap to the face, the words bit into him suddenly and sharply. He had time to blink twice, reevaluate his senses enough to tune to _right, well, fuck this,_ before taking a big gulp of his own drink and steeling his gaze out over the dance floor.

Right, then. He got a little too deep into the fantasy, stupid him. Predictable, but stupid — that’s Lance for you.

“Sure,” he answered in a clipped tone. “Do you want me to leave? I’ll go to the room if that’s what you want.”

Now it was Keith’s turn to look like Lance had struck him, eyes widening and cheeks reddening with the false-sting. Lance couldn’t even pretend to feel bad about it.

“A-are you — um, I mean, not that I don’t, wouldn’t, but — uhhh. Don’t you think that’s a little, er, soon?”

Oh, _fuck_ this.

Lance threw his hands up, glaring with everything he had to hide any traces of disappointment.

“Seriously? Wow. So just — tone it down? Nice. Fine.”

“I’m… confused. Are you mad about something?”

Lance barely managed not to cringe. Holy fucking shit, of _course_ Keith was confused, he didn’t have a _clue_ how hard Lance had begun to fall for him because he didn’t even try, didn’t feel a damn thing.

“No.” Lance’s lips thinned, and just before his consciousness could stop him, his own bitter heart bit out a few extra words. “Not like it matters.”

“ _What_? But I just asked — I thought — you don’t want… _wait.”_

Keith’s eyes narrowed, and he moved his hand from the table to grip Lance’s upper arms, holding him in place. “Wait, wait, you thought I meant — let’s not do this anymore. Pretending. Because you think I want to _stop_?”

“Geez, tear my heart out, asshole. Yes, fine, is that what you want to hear?”

“I — Lance, date me.”

Whiplash is the only term that could aptly describe Lance’s bodily and emotional reaction to those two words.

Oh, god, wait — _wait wait wait._ Keith wanted to stop fake-dating so they could…?

He must have lost basic brain function for a moment, because before he realized Keith was sliding his hands down Lances arms and went to hold his hands, and oh christ, Lance’s pulse fucking _skyrocketed_.

“I’m sorry if you don’t want that. I just — I can’t keep pretending to be with you unless I can really have you, this is fucking eating me up. I know you probably weren’t going into this thinking this was it at all and I hope you don’t think I’m, like, trapping you for the night or anything but I’m — ”

Before Keith could ramble further, a voice interrupted them and they both flinched apart. Adam’s sister approached with wide, concerned eyes.

“Oh, boys, I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to interrupt.” She held up a hand as the two righted themselves, retracting back to their automatic position of hand-holding with a respectable amount of space between them. “Are you both okay?”

“Yes.” They answered in sync, same hardened edge to their tone, and Lance was now aware than his hands weren’t he only ones that were clammy.

 _Holyshitholyshitholyshitholyshit_.

Lance coughed, hard, and the woman seemed to remember herself.

“Oh, um. Well I was just checking in on the kiddos and they asked me to do them a favor. You really don’t have to play along, but I _did_ promise I’d see this through.”

“What are you…?” Keith began, but she was already stepping around them and from her pocket she pulled out a folded piece of paper, heavy-handed green crayon scribbling up and down the page. She held the paper over their heads, so the whole scene was on a perfect display of the kids table, and every single one of them laughed — including several nearby adults.

Lance did the only thing he could think to do with such unbidden embarrassment at the hands of strangers and hid his face in his hands.

Keith has gone totally silent, but he released a small noise of surprise after several seconds and Lance recognized the little girl’s voice, Becca, from earlier.

“There’s no mistletoe at this party Uncle Keef but I wanted you and your boyfriend to be able to kiss since that’s what boyfriends do so I made you some!”

“Oh my god,” Keith sputtered out, sounding almost as mortified as Lance did, but he started laughing after a solid ten seconds of awkward silence.

Becca sounded concerned, and maybe a little unsure. “Mr. Lance, are you okay? I’m… I’m sorry if that was wrong, I just thought – didn’t you say boyfriends kiss?”

Indignant, because Lance was going to save at least _some_ of his pride, he choked out a laugh and bemoaned in the direction of Keith and Adam’s sister. “Okay, I did _not_ say that… specifically... I just said – ”

“Let’s get a move on boys, my arms starting to get tired,” the woman said cheekily, probably misreading Lance’s intense desire to drop dead as bashful shyness. Oh, how he wished it was just that.

Punching down his growing urge to throw-up, Lance stole a glance at Keith to measure his reaction and – _oh_.

Oh.

His aching chest, wobbly legs, erratic thoughts – it all evened out, faded however slightly – because what he saw was only a small, gentle smile. It was – it was fond, and amused, and happy; it was everything Keith was in the mornings, everything Lance looked forward to seeing the next day after classes, everything that had made him stupid and weak for him in the first place.

It was just a smile, but so sincere, Lance felt like his heart was fit to burst.

Keith bit his lip, almost shyly, and his brows came together. “Lance?”

Maybe Lance had died. Maybe he’d done a good enough job during his nineteen mortal years and had earned himself a spot in heaven with his _abuelita_ and his two goldfish, because, was Keith _asking_ for _permission_ to _fucking **kiss him**?!_

With absolutely zero shame, Lance grabbed Keith’s shirt by the collar and practically yanked him forward, stopping just shy of their lips actually touching, gaze flickering momentarily from Keith’s mouth to his eyes, which had turned to the size of dinner plates.

“ _Finally_ ,” Lance said with a sly grin, and Keith looked like he wanted to roll his eyes but instead closed them, eyelashes fluttering as he met Lance the final few inches, and Lance felt like he’d swallowed a box of fireworks. His chest was sparkling, even from the lightest pressure of Keith’s chapped lips, catching _ever-so-slightly_ over Lance’s smooth skin in a way that was, truthfully, almost sinful considering there was an eruption of cheers from the kids table, and Lance had to fight the urge to chase the feeling and instead pull back – had to keep such a moment chaste for the youngsters.

Keith almost had the nerve to look smug when he reached up and removed Lance’s hands from his collar, threading their fingers together.

“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he pointed out, and Adam’s sister had already begun to shoo Becca and the other children who had snuck closer during their _hilarious_ hijink. “I hope that meant…”

“Yes, yes you fucking mulleted idiot, _yes_. Date me. Idiot. Asshole.” Lance squeezed his hands, urgently leaning forward to kiss him again.

Keith didn’t deny him, but this time was a bit gentler, more deliberate as his hands moved to cup Lance’s cheeks, and he thought for sure he was going to run out of air because Keith had effectively stolen all of his oxygen.

There were worse ways to die, Lance decided. Much, much worse.

“We need to find Becca,” Keith informed him once they separated. “I need to thank her for that picture.”

Lance, smiling back at him, couldn’t help but agree.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks, for the ask anon! I'll be doing these on tumblr 'til January, so please, feel free to hop in. :)


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